


Don't Forget to Think About Me (and I Won't Forget You)

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Series: No Matter What You Do (Someone Always Knew You Would) [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Blow Jobs, Casual Intimacy, Catholic Guilt, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Gay Panic, Heart-to-Heart, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, Language of Flowers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Regret, Relapsing, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Repression, Sex Toys, Shame, Slow Burn, Smoking, Sobriety, Stargazing, Time Skips, Trans Dean, Trans Male Character, Unresolved Emotional Tension, catholic guilt is strong but thirst is stronger, finn is soft™ in everything i write huh, graphic depictions of panic attacks, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, kinda?? the first part is hs and the rest isnt, this whole fic is just. GLaDOS VOICE: only you would be this pointlessly cruel. you monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-01-06 02:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18378626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: Roman’s known about Dean for years. He has a reputation around town that everyone knows. After all, he doesn't go to church every Sunday, doesn’t keep a Bible on his nightstand or in his bag. He drinks and uses drugs, he sneaks into clubs he’s too young for, he skips class to smoke under the bleachers and he gets into fights with startling frequency. The most worrying thing is the fact that he dates older men, if it can even be counted as dating when all they do is meet up in dirty club bathrooms and alleys outside bars to hook up and never talk again.





	1. Chapter 1

Contrary to what most people think, Roman Reigns isn’t popular.

Sure, he knows a lot of people- it’s a small town,  _ everyone _ knows a lot of people- and he’s friendly with most of them, but he isn’t popular. He’s on the football team, sure, but he’s almost certain most people don’t  _ really _ like him past that. If pressed, he’d say he has two or three close, good friends- the head cheerleader, Seth, and the captain of the soccer team, Finn. To be completely honest, he’s only really friends with his cousins.

He meets Dean Ambrose in his junior year.

Roman’s known  _ about _ Dean for years. He has a reputation around town that everyone knows. After all, he doesn't go to church every Sunday, doesn’t keep a Bible on his nightstand or in his bag. He drinks and uses drugs, he sneaks into clubs he’s too young for, he skips class to smoke under the bleachers and he gets into fights with startling frequency. The most worrying thing is the fact that he dates  _ older men _ , if it can even be counted as dating when all they do is meet up in dirty club bathrooms and alleys outside bars to hook up and never talk again.

Roman’s never interacted with Dean- most people don’t. The only person who does with any sort of regularity is Renee, a pretty blonde on the homecoming committee. Dean keeps to himself, it seems. Hell, he’s hardly ever in class, anyway- Roman only realizes they’re in the same chemistry class two weeks into the semester.

Roman gets assigned as Dean’s lab partner for the course. He gets a pitying look from their teacher and an after-class offer of extra credit for his troubles. Baron, the offensive guard on the football team who sits next to him, tells him with a worrying seriousness to be careful around that  _ lunatic _ .

Dean doesn’t talk to him for the first three days of the lab. 

He won’t look at Roman either. It makes the lab way harder than it needs to be. Roman ends up finishing it by himself during lunch.  He gets the promised extra credit, but honestly, he’s not sure it’s worth the trouble.

When Dean does come to class, and when he does his share of the work, Roman can tell he’s a smart kid. He’s quick, can do calculations off the top of his head, makes Roman laugh in ways he doesn’t expect.

Eventually, Dean comes around. It takes Roman asking what he did wrong, demanding an answer, but it happens. Dean’s still guarded, still misses class half the time, but when he’s there, he’s doing his work and trying to be friendly.

Roman learns that he really likes Dean’s smile. 

Not the harsh smirk that he usually gives, not the sharp turn of the corner of his mouth, not the cruel curl of his lips. Roman likes Dean’s  _ real  _ smile; the one that digs dimples into his skin and pushes his cheeks round, the one that shows the crooked slant of his front tooth and the split lip he always seems to have. It’s a shy smile, one usually accompanied by Dean hiding behind his bangs and a flush coming to his cheeks.

It takes a long while before Roman considers Dean a  _ friend _ .

It simultaneously happens out of nowhere and seems like the most logical next step. It happens at the end of their junior year, during a casual conversation about their summer plans. Roman doesn’t know the specifics, but he knows that Dean’s home life isn’t great. It’s a part of his reputation (which Roman now knows is such a small part of  _ Dean _ ) that everyone knows about; he’s the weird kid who lives in the  _ bad  _ part of town, the kid with absentee parents. Roman’s seen the bruises, but he knows it’s not his place to ask unless he wants to get his teeth knocked in.

Dean mentions that his summer will consist of sitting at home, with no one else. He mentions that his mom would probably be on the street corner  _ “working,” _ shapes the word like it hurts to speak. When Roman asks about his dad, Dean tells him that he’s in jail. 

Roman invites Dean to stay with him. 

Dean looks at him like he’s grown a third head, fist clenched and arm tensed like he isn’t quite sure if he should swing but he’s prepared anyway. Roman tells him they’ve got the room, they’ve got more than enough food, and that his mom would love Dean- and she absolutely would, has a soft spot for every stray that comes through her door.

Dean’s on edge the entire ride home. He’s white-knuckling the torn strap of his backpack, knee jiggling with a ferocity that makes Roman’s calves ache. He doesn’t say a word until they’re halfway there.

When he does speak, though, it seems like the words can’t stop coming.

He asks if Roman’s sure his parents won’t hate him, asks if he’s really welcome, asks if Roman will get in trouble. He asks if Roman’s sure that his parents will let a kid like Dean stay in their house.

When he asks Roman why he’s being so nice to a  _ fuck up like him _ , Roman’s heart breaks a little.

Roman reassures him, tells him that it’s fine, his parents will love Dean, that he’s welcome and that it won’t cause any trouble. He tells Dean that he’s always welcome at Roman’s house, no matter what. He tells Dean that he’s nice to him because he deserves it.

Dean doesn’t look him in the eye the rest of the way home.

He’s incredibly polite when he meets Roman’s parents.

Sika gives him a firm, stern handshake that’s capable of shattering bones, gives him a short smile and tells Dean to call him by his name. Mama Reigns gives him a hug with all the ferocity of a tackle and tells him to make himself at home.

That’s the beginning of their friendship.

After that, Dean pretty much moves in with Roman. Most of his things are stuffed into Roman’s drawers and closet. His leather jacket is always tossed over the beanbag in Roman’s room, and his muddy boots are always by the door. Dean stops being so skittish around Roman’s parents. He calls Roman’s mother “mom” more often than not, and he doesn’t flinch at their hugs.

It’s nice. And yeah, sometimes Dean goes off the deep end, sometimes he screams and hits and freaks out. Sometimes he tries to speak and all that comes out is garbled noises. Sometimes he pulls his hair and scratches till he bleeds and lines his wrists with thin white scars. He's a nice kid though. That stuff rarely happens. Most of the time, he’s collected, can keep the voices under control.

Their friendship falls apart on Roman’s 18th birthday.

They spend the day cooped up in Roman’s bedroom with three boxes of pizza, a two liter of soda, a box of donuts and play video games until their fingers ache. Roman wins more often than not, but Dean still hits  _ replay _ and digs his elbow into Roman’s ribs whenever he gets too far in the lead.

Somewhere along the way, Roman ends up with a smear of chocolate on his lower lip, and that’s the beginning of the end.

Dean leans in, maybe a little too close, and smooths it away with his thumb. His finger is rough, callused, and  _ cold _ . His eyes are the bluest thing Roman’s ever seen, and the end of his tongue is poking from between his lips. 

Dean kisses him.

He kisses like he's fighting, like he has to get control to survive, like he's never learned how to love tender. There's too much teeth and there are nails digging into Roman's scalp and it  _ hurts _ more emotionally than physically. He tastes like raspberry donuts and pizza grease, and his lips are chapped.

Roman shoves him off.

It's not because he doesn't want it.  _ God _ , he wants, with everything he has, everything he is. Still, he can't bring himself to admit it. He can't explain himself either, can't explain the shame slithering across his spine and the hyper-awareness of the cross on his wall and the Bible in his nightstand. He can't explain the way his chest aches when he sees the hurt look on Dean's face.

Dean skips town after that.

Roman doesn't get a goodbye, not really. Instead, he finds a note shoved in his backpack saying that Dean's going back to Cincinnati, that he knows he fucked up, that Roman shouldn't try and find him. 

Roman's crushed. Of course he is; his best friend of almost a year, the person he knows and trusts the best, left without saying goodbye, left a note and an old t-shirt and nothing else. He knows it's his fault. It's his fault because he pushed Dean away, because he was too much of a fucking coward to take what he wanted when it was handed to him.

Eventually, that sadness morphs into something darker, something heavier. Eventually, Roman gets  _ angry _ at Dean for leaving. He stops being  _ Dean _ and starts being  _ Ambrose _ , stops being Roman's best friend from high school and instead becomes the asshole who left Roman high and dry with no good reason.

Eventually, Roman’s convinced himself that the next time he sees Ambrose, he's gonna break his knuckles on the younger man's face.


	2. Chapter 2

Roman’s life continues after Ambrose leaves.

He stays in his hometown, goes to the local community college as he works at the local convenience store. He gets a degree in management, something he’s almost certain he isn’t going to use. He doesn’t do it for himself- he does it to make his family proud, since his aspirations of a football career ended when what they thought was just a burner turned out to be a torn rotator cuff. Nowadays, it feels like everything he does is to make his family proud. He feels like he’s been in his father’s shadow for so long that he can’t remember the sun. It’s exhausting.

He opens up a small bakery, starts selling foods from both his heritages. It’s the first thing he’s done for himself in who knows how long. He’s happy, for the first time in a long time. And sure, he has to wake up at a ridiculous time every morning to bake, but it’s something he loves and it gives him something productive to do.

It’s mid-September when Roman’s world implodes.

He walks to the shop every morning, so he sees the graffiti well in advance. Large brightly colored shapes span the entire side of his bakery, reaching all the way up to the fucking  _ roof _ two stories high. Crouched down near the defacement is a man with a can of spray paint in each hand. 

In any other situation, Roman might consider the man attractive. He seems tall, has mile-long legs folded under him. The black skinny jeans he’s wearing accent the tensed muscles of his thighs, which seem even bigger than Roman’s own. The loose fur-lined leather jacket he’s wearing doesn’t hide the width of his shoulders or the nip of his waist. His hands are… well. There’s no other word for them other than  _ pretty- _ long, thin fingers, a thick palm, long nails, and knuckles dusted with scars and cuts. 

If Roman was running on more than 3 hours of sleep, he’d probably feel some form of shame. 

The man’s head is bopping up and down, probably to the beat of whatever music is coming through his headphones. His hair is shorn close to his scalp, the color a unique mix of brown, red, and blonde that feels so  _ familiar _ it makes Roman’s teeth ache.

“Hey man, what the hell’s going on here?” Roman asks, trudging over. It’s too early to deal with this, he thinks, as he tries to get the man’s attention. Eventually, he succeeds, and decides its definitely too early when he sees who the man is.

Dean fucking Ambrose rises to his feet, chewing obnoxiously on a wad of gum. His lips spread into a shit-eating grin, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

He looks surprisingly the same as he did in high school, considering it’s been over a decade. His cheeks are still too chubby like he never lost any of his baby fat, his thick ginger beard accenting the curve. His eyes are still so blue it hurts, bloodshot and lidded. He’s got two earrings in his right earlobe- the first one a small ring and the second one an obnoxious guitar pick earring that jangles when he moves.

“Well, long time, no see, pretty boy.” For every bit that Ambrose’s look hasn’t changed, his voice has tenfold. It’s gotten deeper, rough with years of abuse and cigarette smoke. It grates on Roman’s nerves like a knife dragging over each of his vertebrae, like nails on a fucking chalkboard.

It isn’t until the ache sets into his knuckles that Roman realizes that he’s punched Ambrose in the face.

He shakes out his hand, taking note of the cut on his index knuckle from Ambrose’s crooked front tooth. Ambrose’s head snaps back, and he staggers a little from the force of the hit. He’s holding his nose, blood pouring sluggishly over his lips. 

“Fuck!” Ambrose curses, his voice thick in his throat. He bares bloodstained teeth at Roman, looking every bit as feral as everyone said he was back in high school. “What the fuck was that for?”

Roman chokes back words he knows he can’t say, words like “ _ you left,”  _ words like “ _ I missed you,” _ words like  _ “why did you have to ruin everything,” _ words like “ _ I’ve wanted to do this for over a decade and now I just feel nauseous.” _ Instead, he forms his mouth around, “You vandalized my fucking bakery,” instead of letting himself focus on the red tint to Ambrose’s lips and the way his breath deepens.

“Ok, you have a point.” Ambrose sinks to the ground, tipping his head back to try and stem the bleeding. “In my defense, I didn’t know this was your bakery.” 

Roman stares at Ambrose for a moment. Part of him is having trouble seeing anything other than the scrawny kid his family took in over a decade ago. The hunch of his shoulders is the same, the jitter of his knee, the scar on the back of his neck. For all he’s changed, all he’s bulked up and gotten pierced and tattooed, he’s still that broken 16 year old.

“Clean this shit up.” Roman doesn’t let himself focus on all the memories bubbling up. Instead, he gestures angrily at the graffiti and refuses to look at Ambrose. He’s worried that if he looks, every wall he’s built, every emotion he’s stamped down, every sin he’s ever confessed to, will come spilling out.

He’s not sure if he could stay above all that.

Ambrose looks at him for a moment, letting his hand fall from his nose. He’s shirtless under his jacket, and there are a few drops of blood staining his pale chest. A thin gold chain is wrapped around his throat, glittering in the early morning light. It looks  _ delicate _ , especially compared to the thick column of Ambrose’s neck and shoulders. Roman can’t look away from it.

“I can get off some of the stuff closer to the ground since it’s fresh, but…. That shit up there? It has to be painted over.” Ambrose says, gesturing to the shapes painted at the top of Roman’s bakery. He realizes Ambrose must have been painting all night, with how much of the wall is covered.

“Then paint over it.” Roman doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s early and he’s tired and he has most of a display case to replace and he can’t look away from the slope of Ambrose’s bottom lip and the ball of his nose.

“Do I look like I have fucking exterior latex paint?” Dean asks. There’s a bite to his words, short and clipped, that makes Roman’s heart thud in his chest.

It’s too fucking early for this shit.

“Find a way to get some and cover this shit up. You made the mess, you fucking fix it.” Roman snaps. He walks away, hands balled into angry fists in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. 

He very pointedly doesn’t look at Dean standing outside his window as he bakes the pastries for the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe i've posted two chapters in ONE NIGHT

Ambrose shows up to the bakery with two buckets of white paint a week later.

Roman’s busy chatting with one of his regulars, Charlotte, over the new soaps he’s started selling. They had never been close in high school, but she was nice enough and always made sure to buy more than she really needed, so Roman tried his best to be polite and personable.

Ambrose sucks the air out of the room as soon as he enters. The paint can in his right hand bangs loudly on the door as he shoves it open, the one in his left jangling against his long wallet chain. There’s a duffle bag tossed over his shoulder.

Ambrose marches up to the counter and drops the paint cans on the ground next to his feet with a loud  _ clang _ . Charlotte turns and stares, eyes wide and confused, her face set in stone.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Roman asks, jaw set as he looks down at his hands. Ambrose is close,  _ too close _ , as he leans over the counter with a cheeky grin. His nose is crooked, a bruise forming in the shell of his eye socket. It looks like he’s wearing eyeliner.

“You told me to get the paint to cover up the graffiti. Just tell me what you want me to do, boss.” The smacking of Ambrose’s gum sounds thunderous in Roman’s ears, the  _ tap, tap, tapping _ of Ambrose’s fingers like a damn bomb going off. Roman doesn’t think he’s ever been this attuned to a sound before.

“You’re getting that art covered? But it’s beautiful!” Charlotte says, finally tearing her eyes off Ambrose. Roman shoots her a dirty look.

“Fine. Just. Go fucking cover it and don’t bother me until it’s gone.” He tells Ambrose. He pointedly ignores Charlotte’s comment in favor of wrapping the jar of honey and two cubes of soap she’d picked to buy. He tries to ignore the shake in his hands as Dean salutes and leaves.

The day goes by at a snail’s pace. It’s the middle of the week, so business isn’t terribly quick. He spends his time filling a fresh batch of cannoncini and mixing a batch of marshmallows. He has to remake the marshmallows three times since he can’t stop overmixing. He can see Ambrose through the window, standing in a pair of torn jeans without his jacket on as he paints. There’s white smeared across his collarbone.

He’s in the middle of hand cutting star-shaped pastries when Ambrose ambles in.

The younger man stops at the counter with a hand in his back pocket as he looks through the display case. An unlit cigarette is hanging from his mouth, his free hand flipping his lighter open and closed absently. There’s a safety pin speared through the cartilage at the top of his right ear. He jabs his finger at the glass of the display case and glances up through his lashes. Roman’s eye twitches in anger. He knows he’s going to have to clean that case later.

“Are these your dad’s pani popo?” Ambrose asks, leaning against the display with his hip jutted out. Roman’s too busy looking at the barbed wire choker wrapped around his neck to realize he’s been asked a question.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, it is.” He answers, tearing his eyes away. He looks down at the pastry he’s cutting. His hands aren’t still enough to get a clean edge. “I’m, uh. I’m surprised you remembered.”

Ambrose’s smile is all teeth. “Of course I remembered. These things were the shit! Man, I’ve been craving these things for the past 15 years.” His tone is light, happy, and it makes Roman’s eyes burn with the threat of invisible tears. “Am I allowed to order one of these, or am I not allowed to eat on the job?” Ambrose asks as he stretches. The muscles in his stomach tense and highlight the soft pudge of his tummy and the sharp jut of his hipbones.

“As long as you’ve got the money for it. They’re $5.” Roman makes a point to never judge his customers off their appearance. Apparently, he doesn’t do a great job this time. He can’t help it; the Ambrose he knew never had more than 70¢ to his name, and it looks like Ambrose hasn’t changed enough to change that fact. The clothes he’s wearing still look second hand and worn thin, a little baggy in the wrong areas like they weren’t sized for his body.

With that slight slip, Ambrose’s face shuts down. The emotions Roman’s been feeling die in his throat as he watches the kid he knew disappear and become replaced with a look that would kill a lesser man. The droop of Ambrose’s eyes turns hard, and the slight smile on his face disappears into a sneer.

“I’m not dirt fuckin’ poor, Reigns. You can take the stick outta your ass.” He gripes, slapping a five dollar bill onto the counter. Roman can’t bring himself to look at Ambrose, shame crawling along his spine as he clumsily grabs one of the coconut rolls. 

Dean leaves with the pastry and the wall half-painted. Roman doesn’t blame him.


	4. Chapter 4

The wall of the bakery stays half-painted for two weeks.

Almost every damn person that comes into the bakery asks Roman about it. He gets a number of compliments on the artwork and enough questions about why he’d cover something so beautiful that he’s debating painting the damn wall himself.

Ambrose avoids him like the damn plague. Roman can’t fault him on it either. As much as Roman would like to think that he’s a nice person, is still that good-hearted kid without a mean bone in his body, he knows he isn’t. The flash of hurt in Ambrose’s eyes keeps flashing behind Roman’s eyelids.

It’s a small town, though, and you can only avoid someone for so long. 

Roman sees Ambrose around town a few times, smoking next to the church before Mass and loitering around the old basketball courts with the few addicts in town. Apparently, Ambrose even comes into the bakery the one day Roman isn’t there himself; Jey tells him that Ambrose curled up in the corner with a sketchbook and sat for hours without buying a damn thing.

When he finally talks to Ambrose, it isn’t an accident.

There’s been guilt sitting on his chest like a physical weight, makes his hands shake and his eyes sting. He’s been a miserable bastard about it too, sulking around the bakery and making candles too misshapen to sell. Jimmy threatens to throttle him a few times and Seth refuses to talk to him after the first week. He tells Roman to deal with his fucking problems instead of making everyone else around him miserable by proxy. 

The interaction is the only thing he confesses that week.

Eventually, after a few weeks of sleeping like shit and replaying the way Ambrose’s face shut down, he seeks the younger man out. 

He finds Ambrose in their old hideout, under the bleachers by the football field. He’s wrapped up in an ancient hoodie, his jeans tattered at the hems and the knees. He’s smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that Roman doubts contain any tobacco, the smoke thick and cloying. His hands are shaking.

Roman sits down next to him in the dirt, legs stretched as far as they can. Ambrose looks at him out of the corner of his eye and doesn’t say anything. They’re silent for a long while, tension thick and tangible between them.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you.” It sounds forced, even to Roman, so he isn’t surprised when Ambrose barks out a laugh. The sound is harsh, gritty, makes Roman’s throat ache. 

Ambrose thumps his head back against the brick wall. Despite all the anger Roman’s held for him all these years, he can’t help but wince. He has to bite back a concerned  _ “are you ok” _ and a retort about protecting what little Dean has in his head.

“I’m not mad at you, Roman. You have every right to believe I can’t afford shit.” His voice is like sun-hot gravel, rough with smoke and disuse. He stares straight ahead, eyes flicking over to look at someone that isn’t really there. It’s a familiar mannerism, a nervous tic Roman hasn’t seen in a decade and a half but could recognize in his sleep.

“Then what’s wrong?” Roman can’t help but ask. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t care, that this is just him going through the motions of polite conversation. He knows it isn’t though, knows he still holds a soft spot a mile wide for Ambrose. He cares, deeply,  _ viscerally, _ because Ambrose is hurting, because  _ Dean _ is hurting, because this is the same man he cared about more than anything and still does, deep down.

“Don’t act like you care.” Dean huffs around his cigarette. When he pulls it away from his mouth, his hands shake enough to knock ash onto his exposed knee where it’s drawn to his chest. If it burns, he doesn’t show it.

Roman resists the urge to slam his head back against the wall. Everything he’s buried for the past  _ 15 fucking years _ bubbles in his throat, brought to the surface by how  _ small _ Dean feels next to him. He chokes on words he knows he can never say, breath rough as he tries to form his mouth around something that won’t make his stomach roll.

“Because you’re still my brother.” And it’s true, when Roman thinks about it. All the anger, the resentment, the  _ hatred _ , none of it was real. It’s all a mask. It’s safe emotions, ones he can deal with, instead of the hurt and loss and disappointment that Dean left in his wake when he left.

“If I was, then you wouldn’t have pushed me away back then.” And Roman can’t look away from the curl of Dean’s mouth, from the way is cigarette sticks to his lower lip, from the saliva and blood staining Dean’s skin. And Dean’s leaving, feet shuffling, shoulders hunched, until he’s nothing more than a shadow on the back of Roman’s eyelids. And then Roman’s alone and feeling just as small as he did the first time Dean left.

The bakery wall is painted over when he gets to work the next morning, stained with cigarette smoke.


	5. Chapter 5

Roman’s most comfortable when he’s at church.

He’s always been religious, was raised Catholic from a young age. He grew up with the stained glass windows, with the crucifixion statues and the elegant crosses. He grew up hearing fire and brimstone sermons, grew up with the shame and repression and confessing his every sin. 

Father Hunter is a kind man, if a little rough around the edges. He’s served as a father figure to a few of Roman’s friends- mentoring Seth and taking Finn under his wing. Roman’s known him for a long while, ever since Father Hunter took over for his father-in-law. He probably knows more about Roman than anyone else, knows ever sin and transgression, every shortcoming, every hard emotion.

He’s more than happy to sit down with Roman when he asks.

Father Hunter knows about Roman’s complications with Dean. He’s the person Roman went to when Dean left, the only person Roman’s ever told about what happened. 

He lets Roman get it all off his chest, lets Roman ramble about the  _ feelings _ , the guilt, the weird emotions Roman can’t place. He listens patiently as Roman speaks about the fear, the longing, the sadness.

Once Roman finishes spilling his guts, spilling almost everything, Father Hunter lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I think you’re dealing with a lot. These are complex emotions, something you’ve been avoiding for years.” His voice is soft, low, like he’s trying not to spook an animal.

“What do you suggest I do, Father?” Roman’s voice is  _ small _ . He feels like a kid again, feels like he’s 18 again and lost his best friend, can’t stop replaying Dean walking away from him. The curve of Dean’s mouth haunts him.

Father Hunter sighs. “Honest;y? I think you should talk to him. Have a real, mature conversation about what happened.” He says it like it’s simple, like it’s the most logical next step, like Roman hasn’t already tried that.

Roman knows Dean. For all he’s changed, there’s still so much that hasn’t. He knows Dean would rather pull his own teeth than talk about emotions, about feelings. Having a  _ deep, mature _ conversation with Dean is like talking to a brick wall. 

Roman doesn’t say this. It feels like a  _ secret, _ the same way everything else he knows about Dean, all the hidden facts, feel like something sacred, shared only with him. Instead, he settles on saying, “I don’t know how to find him,” because denial and excuses are easier than emotions.

Father Hunter sighs. “It’s a small town, Roman. I’m sure you can find him if you try.” 

The conversation ends there. Roman tells Father hunter about the business, about how Seth and Finn are doing, about the bees he keeps in his backyard. They pray together, for safety and health and peace. Holding his rosary feels like benediction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is a pile of angst disguised as a chapter

Dean’s at the mechanic’s shop when Roman finds him. 

Despite the fact that it’s the middle of October and the wind is sharp enough to sting tears into eyes, he’s standing in an oil-stained tank top and shredded jeans. He’s bent over a rusty old truck, hands fiddling with something under the hood. 

He doesn’t notice Roman at first, lingering at the edge of the room. Instead of trying to draw Dean’s attention, he leans against the doorframe and watches. He stares at the flex of Dean’s bicep, follows the jerky glide of his fingers, looks at the oil smeared across his cheek. He notices that there’s a hole in Dean’s jeans, just under the seat of his pants.

Eventually, Dean straightens and turns to grab something from the cart next to him. His eyes catch on Roman and his face shuts down. The movement of his hands gets rougher as he fumbles a wrench. He stares, for a long moment, before he jerks his head away.

“Unless you’re here to get a car fixed, get the fuck out.” Dean mumbles. The words sound muffled despite there being nothing in the way, almost like all the emotions and things left unsaid between them are blocking the sound.

Roman sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. “Can we just… Can we just talk?” It takes everything he has to say those words. Talking is the last thing he wants, and if the look on Dean’s face is anything to go by, it’s the last thing he wants too.

Dean snorts. “Sure, Reigns. What do you want to talk about? The weather? How Alicia needs to keep her dogs on a leash when she walks?” He sneers, words hard, biting, full of teeth and venom. He won’t look at Roman, instead focusing on the engine in front of him.

“Let's start with where you’ve been for the past 15 years.” Roman answers. He walks a little bit closer, sits in the chair near the beat-up desk in the room. Dean takes three steps away.

“What do you care? It’s none of your fucking business.” Dean spits. There’s something in his eyes, something strong and dark and painful. Roman feels like he knows that look all too well.

“I never stopped caring.”

And the world stops. Dean leans his weight against the truck like he can’t support himself, hands clutching an oil-stained cloth so tight his knuckles turn white. His jaw tenses, the tendon in his neck flaring. He looks pained, like he’s been stabbed in the kidneys, like he’s been gutted, metaphorically or not.

“You can’t just say shit like that.” Dean’s voice sounds so weak. Normally, there’s a fire in his voice, a passion, anger and excitement and every other emotion he’s feeling. But now… Now, there’s nothing there other than pain. He finally looks up and makes eye contact.

Roman’s heart stops.

Dean’s eyes are red ringed and narrowed. It’s not like he’s holding back tears; more like he’s holding back a scream, a torrent of unsaid words, a wave of plans unacted upon, a barrage of emotions. It’s familiar, hauntingly so, something Roman’s been seeing every night for the past fifteen years.

It’s how his eyes looked when Roman pushed him away.

“I can’t tell the truth?” Roman’s voice is wet, rough in his throat like it was the first time he tried to smoke a cigarette. His heart is pounding in his chest, like it needs to get out, get away from all the pain. It’s like an undercurrent, the pain, to every emotion Roman’s had about Dean for the past fifteen years. It isn’t any easier to deal with, even now, even as he looks at Dean, who’s grown into a stranger.

“Because that’s not the truth, Roman! You don’t care about me. You can’t.” Dean chokes out. He walks away from the truck, towards the refrigerator in the corner. His hands are shaky as he grabs a water bottle, the plastic crunching in his grip as he downs half of it. He paces, loud, heavy steps like he can’t be bothered to control his weight.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I care?” Roman knows why. Of course he does; it’s his own damn fault Dean doesn’t believe him on this. Part of him needs to hear Dean say it. Maybe it’s some sick form of penance, some greedy grab at absolution that he hasn’t earned.

Dean’s hands sink into his close-shorn hair and he pulls. He’s trembling, like he has too much anger, too much sadness, too many emotions for his body to contain. His mouth is working around words but nothing comes out. It’s an indelible mannerism, something Roman’s seen a thousand times before, something that makes his stomach twist almost painfully.

“Because you pushed me away.”

Roman expected screaming, expected something as loud and abrasive as Dean himself. He isn’t prepared for the barely audible whisper that he has to strain to hear. His heart crumples.

Dean finally looks up and it hurts almost as bad as him leaving. His eyes are red and wet, welling with tears he probably won’t let himself shed. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth pinched into a thin line. His chin is quivering. Suddenly, he looks 17 again, despite every change he’s had. Roman can’t see him as anything other than the scrawny, bruised 16 year old he met in junior year.

“I fucking bared myself to you, heart and fucking soul, and you pushed me away. I didn’t even get an explanation.” There’s anger there, barely held back, visible in Dean’s clenched fists and shaking body, but it feels shallow. There’s something under it, dark and aching. 

Roman feels like he’s been skinned, like every nerve in his body is exposed. He wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Words don’t seem appropriate, somehow. Neither do actions, despite the way Roman wants to cross the room and hold Dean. 

“I didn’t get an explanation either.” Roman has to force the words out, has to make himself speak. He’s flayed open, his still-beating heart yanked out of his chest and laid on the floor. His words come out breathy, come out all wrong, too soft in the silent room.

“What else was I supposed to do?” Dean asks. “I kissed you, you pushed me away, I left. There’s your explanation.” His words are bitter, accompanied by a humorless scoff. He shoves his hands in his pockets, as if to hide the shaking, as if Roman will forget that tremble just because he can’t see them anymore.

Roman doesn’t know how to respond. Everything he’s wanted to say to Dean, fifteen years worth of things left unsaid, leave in one breath. Nothing he can say will change anything, won’t change how Dean won’t look at him. He’s not even sure if he wants Dean to look at him.

“Would it really have killed you if we kissed?”

Roman’s heart leaps into his throat. His brain, forever unhelpful, supplies that no, it wouldn’t have, that Roman wanted Dean to kiss him. As soon as he lets himself think that, shame settles deep into his stomach, claws at his throat, makes his eyes go a little blurry. He manages to stammer out an, “I can’t do this,” voice thick in his throat.

He leaves before Dean can respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not like. Super pleased with how this turned out but oh well!!! This sucked!!!!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all it's literally 4 am lmao

Seth somehow manages to ambush Roman during their weekly lunch date.

They always eat at Flair's, the old diner in town that's been around since the 70s. It's run by Charlotte and her dad, and just about everyone in town eats there. They have a booth in the back corner that they always snag, tucked away from everyone else. 

“So,” Seth starts, dipping a French fry into his milkshake. “Guess who came into the gym last week.” He pops the fry in his mouth, chewing around his smile. There's a glint in his eye that Roman doesn't like. He knows it well enough to know it means trouble.

The gym Seth owns with Finn is in Orlando, which, considering the short drive from Winter Park, might as well be a different country. It's a relatively successful gym, so really, Seth could be talking about anyone. Roman makes a noncommittal noise around his burger.

Seth rolls his eyes. “Do you remember Dean Ambrose? From high school?” 

Roman tries to keep all the emotions he's feeling off his face, but he must fail, because Seth's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline so quickly it'd be comical if Roman wasn't choking on his food.

Seth doesn't say anything for a moment. Roman wants to, wants to say something to cut the tension, wants to smooth over his reaction, but he can't figure out how to get his mouth to work. Instead, he busies himself with pushing his fries out of the way of the juice from his burger that's creeping along his plate.

“What happened to him? Y'all were really close and then he just… left like a month before graduation.” Seth asks, kicking Roman in the shin. 

Roman doesn't say anything for a moment. 

He's never told Seth about what happened. It was a mistake, something that never should have happened, something better left forgotten. But he doesn't know what else to say, how else to explain it. He could probably get away with telling Seth that Dean just went off the deep end and split town, but he doesn't think he can make his mouth say those words.

“He left the day after my birthday.” He says after a long stretch of silence. “He… fuck.” Roman drags a hand through his hair and shoves his plate away. His stomach is rolling nausea and shame mixing curdling like rotten milk in his gut. 

Seth raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

“He kissed me. And I freaked. I pushed him away, so he left. Went back to Cinci.” He has to force the words out, almost chokes on them. They taste bitter 

Seth is quiet for a long moment. He simply sits there, sipping his smoothie, studying Roman like they haven't known each other since 10th grade. His stare feels like a physical thing, feels like the stares of everyone who's ever judged Roman.

“Why'd you freak?” He finally asks.

Roman's startled by that. It's far from what he expected, was a different kind of deep dive than he'd come to expect from Seth. Emotions were always Finn's thing.

“My best male friend kissed me out of nowhere. Of course I freaked.” Roman sounds too defensive, downright belligerent. He sounds like he wants to slap Seth, and while he does, in fact want to do that, he doesn't want Seth to know that. He stares down at the coffee-stained table instead of meeting his friend's eye.

“But why? It's not like you didn't want it.” Roman's hear snaps up so quickly his neck aches. Seth is looking at him, almost smug, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Roman kicks him.

“I don't know what the fuck you've been smoking, dude, but that's fucking crazy.” There's that tone again, too harsh, too angry, too telling.

“Dude, everyone saw how you too looked at each other.” Seth's snorts, tossing a fry into his mouth. He kicks his feet up on the booth next to Roman, muddy sneakers leaving little huts of debris left.

“What does that mean?” It's not even denial, though Roman knows it looks that way. He genuinely has no idea what Seth means. “I looked at him the same way I looked at you.”

Seth barks out a laugh loud and sudden and nasally. He laughs for just a tad too long, just long enough for it to seem mean. “No you didn't. You looked at me like you were 2 seconds away from throttling me. You looked at him in a way I've never seen you look at anyone.” He pauses, as if to let that sink in.

“He looked at you like he just figured out what love was.”

Roman gets dizzy. All the blood drains out of his head, leaving a sick feeling in his stomach. His heart stutters. He wants to believe Seth, wants to be ok with the implications of that, but he can't. He knew Dean better than anyone for over a year. He doesn't know if Dean was capable of feeling love. “We were just friends.” He mumbles.

“Just friends don't smile at each other like that. You looked at him like he hung the fuckin stars in the sky, man. He got soft around you. You were the only person who could make him look like he wasn't about to murder someone.” 

Roman doesn't say anything. He feels sick, confused. There's too much going on in his head, in his chest. His heart aches to believe Seth, but his brain won't let him, reminding him of Bible verses and judgemental stares and shame.

“Why won't you let yourself be happy?” 

Roman doesn't answer. The words get caught in his throat in a tangle of emotions and things left unsaid. He isn't sure if he even wants to say them.

“You clearly wanted him to kiss you. Why did you push him away?”

“Because that was never an option for me.”

Seth raises an eyebrow. He looks like he wants to say something, mouth half open around a syllable, before he stops. He let's Roman continue.

“I never had the option you and Finn had. Y'all got to leave, got to go to a big city where you could just… be. I never could. I wasn't smart enough to amount to much, and after I got injured, I had nothing. I've been stuck in this town, stuck around my family, stuck around God.” He takes a breath.

“I love my family, but I know they're disappointed in me. I don't do anything worthwhile, I was never able to do what they wanted me to do, I was never able to get out of dad's shadow. I love my religion, but there's just something I can't do. I can't do this, Seth. I can't escape this shit.” He has to blink away tears.

“Well fuck, dude.” Seth says after a moment, raking a hand through his hair. They sit in silence for the rest of the meal, suffocated by Roman's confession. Well. Seth eats, but Roman can't bring himself to do more than push his half-finished meal around his plate.

As Seth slips his credit card back into his wallet after paying, he drops a bomb on Roman. “I hope you can work this out. Dean asked for your number and J gave it to him.”

Roman has to stop himself from punching Seth's teeth in.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cAnT sLeEp but hey! Progress!

Roman manages to forget about it.

He gets as far as the next big batch of honey cookies he has to make for Becky's wedding, spending the time in the interim by prepping recipes and making far too many candles to sell in the store.

It isn't a single text; instead, it's a steady barrage that Roman almost missed over the loud humming of his mixer.

_ hey _

_ just wanted to say sry _

_ last time we talked, smth i said upset u _

_ idk what but I didnt mean to _

_ so _

_ sorry _

_ this is dean btw _

Despite himself, Roman almost smiles. The awkwardness of it, the apology even though he doesn't know  _ why _ he's apologizing, the belated introduction are all so thoroughly  _ Dean  _ that it makes his head fuzzy with nostalgia.

He spends 10 minutes staring at his phone, trying to still his taking hands. It takes him another 20 to settle on a message that doesn't make him want to sink into the Earth. He sends a short “ _ I should be the one apologizing,”  _ but he can't get past that for an embarrassingly long time. He erases  _ I was a coward _ , erases  _ sometimes I don't know what to do around y _ ou, doesn't even let himself type  _ I don't think I've dealt with my emotions since you left _ . Instead, he settles on a simple  _ I shouldn't have ambushed you. I acted like a jackass. _

He turns his phone off and tries to forget about it. He finished the batch of cookies and goes home, too scattered to cook without the risk of burning down his bakery. Instead, he walks his dog and collects some honeycomb from the wooden beehive in his backyard. He only turns his phone on when he needs to turn on music to give his mind something to focus on.

_ its ok lmao _

_ i get it _

_ wanna hang out sometime and talk abt this like adults _

_ shit that was dumb _

_ ignore me im high _

Roman almost drops a glass on his foot. His heart staggers something fierce, jackrabbiting against his ribcage almost painfully. He has to sit down.

It takes him a stupidly long time to type out a response with shaky fingers.

_ It's ok. _

_ Maybe Flair's this weekend? _

Dean doesn't respond until the next morning. Roman doesn't sleep a wink.

_ i think ric is still angry at me for almost starting a fire there junior year _

_ maybe the old haunt? _

The “old haunt” in question is an abandoned house at the edge if town. Roman remembers the first time Dean took him there, after prom junior year. It was  _ fun _ in a way things usually weren't for Roman back then. They stayed there for hours. Roman's mother was worried sick.

_ Place got torn down a few years back. _

Roman's about to suggest the drive in when Dean responds. It makes his heart stop, makes him feel like a fucking teenager again, love drunk on his first crush.

_ maybe we should just sit on the roof of my place lmao _

_ we could stargaze :) _

_ i remember you liked astronomy _

Roman barely manages to type out an “ok” before he starts crying.


	9. Chapter 9

The weekend takes what feels like thirty years to come around.

In the few day long interim, Roman barely manages to avoid setting something on fire three different times. After the third, Jey sends him home and makes him promise to get some rest. The burns on his hands feel like penance.

Dean’s pretty much radio silence up until the Sunday they agreed to meet. Roman goes to Mass that morning and barely hears a word the pastor says. He knows most of the verses by heart anyway. Dean’s text, which comes after mass has ended, is simple, containing only his address and a time. Roman’s hands shake almost too bad for him to drive home.

Dean lives in the rough part of town, in a double-wide trailer with paint starting to peel. The lawn is small, and the grass is patchy. There are half-wilted flowers growing in the flower beds.

Dean’s sitting on the roof, knees drawn up to his chest. Roman doesn’t get his attention at first, doesn’t even get out of his car for a long moment, just watching Dean, trying to find the courage to go through with this. Dean looks  _ peaceful _ , haloed by the moonlight, the line of his shoulders relaxed in a way Roman’s never seen on him.

Roman knocks a knuckle against the side of the trailer, standing under Dean awkwardly. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, one hand fidgeting with the loose change in his pocket. It takes Dean a moment to notice him, but when he does, the easy smile on his face makes Roman’s chest hurt. He knows he doesn't deserve it, especially after all this time.

“You can use the crates on the side of the house to get up here.” He says in lieu of greeting, gesturing to the back of the trailer. Roman walks around almost obediently, at a loss of what else to do. He’s so far out of his depth he feels like he's drowning.

He manages to get onto the roof with little fuss, though he does almost get a foot caught in the gutter. Dean’s sitting in the middle of the roof, a blanket spread out under him. There’s a beer bottle resting in one hand, the other fiddling with what looks like a copper coin around the size of a poker chip. He scoots over to let Roman sit down.

They sit there for a moment, awkward silence suffocating between them. Roman doesn’t know what to say. He debates leaving.

Eventually, Dean turns a little to look at him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” He confesses, his voice too soft, too vulnerable, too  _ telling. _ “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’m honestly just surprised you invited me in the first place. Didn’t think you wanted anything to do with me.” Roman mumbles. He feels like he’s drowning. Whether it’s because of the lack of air or the weight of the emotions on his chest, he doesn’t know.

“I was always weak for you, Reigns.” Dean huffs out a barely there chuckle, bringing the bottle to his lips. He takes a long pull before resting the bottle against his knee. He offers the bottle to Roman.

He takes it and drinks a greedy mouthful, needing something to act as a buffer between them, needs something to blanket the nervous rolling of his stomach. Instead of the beer he's expecting, he's greeted with a mouthful of root beer. He almost chokes.

Dean must notice the confusion on his face, because he mumbles out a quiet, “I don't drink.” It doesn't feel like the whole truth.

Roman raises an eyebrow. “Really? I can recall you getting me wasted after prom.” He huffs out a laugh. 

Dean doesn't share it.

He gulps, rolling the coin across his scarred knuckles. There are barely healing scabs across the thin skin, angry purple bruises staining his pale skin. The scars on his hands are almost hidden by the numerous tattoos covering his skin. 

“I, um. I kinda went overboard with it for a while after I left. Figured I needed to be drunk to deal with everything, to do my job, all that shit. I got my 7 month chip around the time I left Cinci.” He hands the coin to Roman. His hands are shaking enough that the coin wavers in his grip.

Roman studies it for a moment. There's a triangle in the center of one side that reads  _ 7 months _ , with words wrapped around it. They've been worn down to the point that it's hard to read them. On the other side, there's a book, with the words  _ STEP SEVEN  _ printed over top. Across the book are the words  _ WE ACCEPT OURSELVES _ .

Roman practically flings the coin back at Dean. It feels like his hands are burning, like someone has reached into his soul, has laid every sin he's ever committed out for the world to see. He feels nauseous.

Dean rolls the coin in his hand, thumb rubbing over the worn surface repetitively. They’re silent for a moment, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It’s almost companionable. Roman hasn’t felt this in 15 years.

After a moment, he speaks. “What did you do when you were in Cincinnati?” His voice is quiet, hushed,  _ vulnerable _ . He feels like if he raises his voice, it'll break the spell and Dean will leave again, feels like this is a dream and anything louder will wake him up. He doesn't want this to end.

Dean huffs out a humorless chuckle. “If you asking about my job, it ain't glamorous. Technically, I was a brawler. It was more like bloodsport, to be honest. Barbed wire and glass tubes and shit.” He takes another swig of root beer. 

Roman’s quiet for a moment. It fits Dean, in a way. He was never one to back away from a fight, even when he was 16 and so malnourished he passed out at times. The barbed wire and blood feels like where Dean would be most at home. 

Eventually, Roman finds his voice to ask, “Why'd you stop doing it?”

Dean sighs and starts picking at the label on the root beer bottle. “I didn't want to stop. I got fucked up real bad during a fight. Took a pizza cutter to the eye. They were able to save it, but I can't really see out of it. Shit's all fuzzy.” there's a tremor in his voice, emotion in all the wrong ways.

Roman wants to comfort Dean, wants to reach out and hold him, put a hand on his shoulder,  _ anything _ . He doesn't, though, because it feels like an invisible line he isn't allowed to cross, not without losing this. Instead, he gives Dean a patient smile and hopes he understands.

“Enough about my sad shit. What about you? Thought you'd be in the NFL by now or some shit.” Dean's voice is cheery, but it's forced, a self-imposed facade like Roman doesn't know exactly what he's feeling, like he hasn't been feeling it for longer than he can remember.

“I was up at Georgia Tech for a little while, but I tore my rotator cuff pretty bad. I finished my schooling and then moved back here, opened up the bakery.” He shrugs likes it's no big deal. The look Dean gives him shows just how much Dean understands.

Roman has to blink back tears. It’s been so long since the injury, and while he’s made his peace with it, he still misses it. Football was his lifeblood, was what he pinned his entire future on, what he spent all his time in high school on. The time he spent in Georgia is in contention for the best time of his life. The only thing that comes close is his time with Dean.

The emotions must show in his expression because Dean’s face softens in a way Roman doesn’t think he’s ever seen on the younger man. A hand lands on Roman’s knee, thumb rubbing in soothing swipes. It startles Roman, enough that he almost jumps, thigh twitching with a half-abandoned movement.

It makes sense, in a way. Roman’s wrapped up in his own head, talking himself out of touching Dean, even in a minor way, just in case it might ruin everything. Meanwhile, Dean just  _ acts _ , does what Roman’s too chickenshit to even entertain doing. Suddenly, Roman feels 18 again and the ghost of Dean’s lips on his haunts the backs of his eyelids.

“I know what you’re feeling, y’know.” 

Dean’s voice is barely audible over the hum of the cicadas. He’s staring into the distance, past the neighboring houses, the fireflies, the chainlink fences, staring off like he’s looking into Roman’s fucking soul. He taps the coin against his knee in an absent movement that feels like home. 

Roman has to gulp down his panic.

“I loved the fights. Felt at home when I was splitting my knuckles over someone’s face. Eventually, the barbed wire stopped feeling like a punishment and started feeling like an embrace. I felt naked without the blood in my eyes. I know what it’s like to miss something like that.”

Roman doesn’t think Dean’s talking about the sports anymore.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never write angst so i think it just gets shoved into this story lmao

They sit on the roof until 2 am.

After about an hour, Dean plops his head in Roman’s lap and demands to know the constellations visible. He’s warm, startlingly so, like a space heater dropped into Roman’s core. He doesn’t allow himself the time to be startled by it.

Roman points out Aquarius and Cepheus with a shaky hand. He traces the lines of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, gestures to the north star and the length of the big dipper. When he regales the tale of Orion and the Pleiades, of a man in love who can never reach the one he cares for no matter how hard he tries, he takes Dean hand to outline them.

Dean’s quiet for a moment, looking skywards. Roman can’t tell if Dean is looking at the stars, or using them as an excuse to look at  _ him _ . Both seem equally likely.

After an eternity, Dean sits up and faces Roman. He doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he runs his thumb against the back of Roman’s hand, smooths a path across the small scars there. His pale skin and dark tattoos look foreign in the light. When he makes eye contact, there’s too much emotion there. Roman’s choking on everything he can’t say.

“Why did you act like me kissing you was the end of the world?”

He’s too fucking quiet, too vulnerable. The man sitting across from Roman is so far removed from the boisterous kid he grew up with, so far from the hurricane masquerading as a man that Roman got  _ used  _ to that he seems like a different person. It’s uncanny, the way Dean’s face still shows every emotion like he never learned he was supposed to hide them.

Roman’s so wrapped up in studying every new line on Dean’s face that he almost misses the words. When they do register, he has to force down the shame and guilt that’s been threatening to choke him for 15 years. He can’t remember how to move his mouth, let alone how to string words together. Everything in him freezes like a rabbit in the sights of a gun.

“I didn’t want that.” 

It sounds quiet, forced,  _ exposed _ in all the wrong ways. He feels like he’s leaving everything on the table; his secrets, his sins, every dime he’s ever earned, his wildly beating heart all laid bare for Dean to pick through. Every second that stretches between them feels like torture.

Dean’s gaze doesn’t waver, even as he forces out, “That’s bullshit and you know it.” His stare feeling like a physical thing, like ice on exposed nerves. His eyes are so blue it hurts. “Tell me the goddamn truth for once, Reigns.”

Roman can’t bring himself to return the eye contact that Dean’s insistent on holding. He also can’t bring himself to remove his hand from Dean’s because even though he knows this is everything he can’t have, everything he shouldn’t want, he feels like he needs to let himself have this one indulgence. Lord knows he’s never let himself have anything like this anyway.

Eventually, he finds words that don’t fit what he needs to say but work well enough. “I had everything planned out.” His voice is almost inaudible over the loud hum of the cicadas. “I was going to graduate, get a scholarship, go pro in football, find myself a wife and have kids and settle down.” He sounds bitter even to himself.

Dean just looks at him, brow creased like he can’t understand what Roman’s saying, like Roman’s speaking another damn language. The calluses on his hand catch on the curve of Roman’s knuckles in a way that makes it hard for Roman to remember what he’s saying.

“I pinned my entire future on this. I didn’t even let myself think about any other possibilities.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Look how that turned out for me.” He pulls his hand away.

Dean doesn’t let go.

“Is that what you wanted?” Dean’s words are soft in a way that’s anachronistic to the kid Roman grew up with. He’s never thought of Dean as someone who was capable of being  _ soft _ , always saw him as a kid made of angles and edges. Dean always seemed like someone who’d been broken to pieces and shoved everything back together without caring about whether or not those pieces  _ fit _ there. “A wife, kids, a job in something that would leave you concussed and battered?”

Roman wants to point out the hypocrisy, point out that Dean made his living in something he himself described as  _ bloodsport _ , but he can’t get his mouth to work. His brain is  _ refusing _ to let his mouth work out of fear of him saying something idiotic like “ _ Your eyes feel more like home than this town ever has,” _ or any of the other checks his mouth wants to write that he can’t cash.

Eventually, he shapes the words, “It doesn’t matter what I want,” with clumsy lips and an awkward tongue, forces them past his teeth before he can second guess himself. The way Dean’s looking at him makes him rethink every decision he’s made that’s led him here.

“What you want is the only thing that matters.” Dean looks  _ heartbroken _ , voice sad, mouth set in a heavy line, his eyes seeming decades older than he actually is. He reaches out the hand that isn’t clinging to Roman’s and brushes the hair out of Roman’s face. It’s a delicate gesture, intimate, and Roman can’t breathe.

He forces his eyes down to his lap because it’s the only place he can think to look that won’t make him burst into tears. “It doesn’t matter, Dean. My whole life, I’ve never been able to think about what I want. I had to think about what my family wanted, what God would want, what everyone around me would want. I don’t think I could focus on my own wishes without freezing.” He gulps and falls silent for a moment.

“I used to make my parents proud. Now, I just think they tell me they’re proud because they don’t want to break me.” Roman’s voice wavers with the threat of tears, cracks around every emotion strangling him. Dean looks like he’s about to start crying, and that’s too much for Roman to handle. He almost falls off the roof in his haste to leave.

He pulls over halfway home and sobs on the side of the road.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so short but i wanted to update again so

When Roman gets to the bakery, there are flowers waiting on the counter.

They weren’t there when he closed up the night before, but that’s not the most distressing thing about the situation. The most distressing thing is the fact that he recognizes the neat chicken-scratch on the card sitting next to the bouquet.

He hasn’t seen the handwriting in almost two decades, but he’s pretty sure he could recognize it from across the room. He hasn’t seen Dean in almost a month, hasn’t seen him since their rooftop chat. Roman’s been feeling flayed open ever since. 

The note has a pouting bumblebee doodled on the margin. The words “ _ I’M SORRY. PLEASE DONT ‘BEE’ MAD AT ME”  _ are printed in the middle of the page. A small frowny face acts as final punctuation. The flowers are labeled with little ribbons tied around the stems.

Yellow anemones, a single daffodil, purple hyacinth, hydrangeas, peonies, deep red roses, camellia, calla lilies, white tulips, and pink carnations make up the bouquet. It’s beautiful, full but not bursting, with a few of each flower lovingly tucked into a stout, short sea glass vase. They look nice on the counter, the reds and yellows of the flowers accenting the faded blue of the counter.

He carefully folds the note and puts it in his pocket, taking care not to bend the thin paper. The flowers stay on his counter, placed to the side by the cash register and candles. 

Every time he looks at them, he can’t help but smile despite the ache in his chest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys my murder husbands might interact and one of them is BACK BAYBAY

Finn doesn’t even get all the way in the bakery before he starts questioning Roman.

“What the fuck did you do?” His voice is harsh, accent thick enough to chew on. There’s a light in his eyes, concern and something darker clouding the blue. Looking him in the eye feels like staring down a ghost.

“What do you mean?” Roman asks, brows furrowed. Finn’s here about the flowers, obviously. Roman asked him about the meaning of them the night before, receiving a barrage of texts in response and an insistence of Finn visiting. 

There’s a fire burning underneath Finn’s voice. “The bouquet. Something happened, it had to. This wouldn’t be sent if there wasn’t something wrong.” Finn hops over the counter, an easy, graceful movement, fluid in a dangerous way.

“Can you just tell me what the flowers mean?” Roman asks, avoiding eye contact. He knows that if he looks at Finn, everything about this situation will come spilling out. He’s not sure if he can handle verbalizing this.

“Alright, grab me the bouquet.” Finn says after a long moment of scrutinizing silence. Roman shuffles to the kitchen, where the flowers have been sitting next to his cooling rack. They’re starting to wilt a little. Roman debates preserving them in some way.

Finn studies them for a moment. “Alright. This,” Finn grabs a simple yellow flower, “Is a yellow anemone. These can mean forgotten love.” Next, he grabs a yellow daffodil. “Single daffodils mean misfortune. Yellow flowers commonly are used for forgiveness.” 

An open purple flower with thin, long petals is selected next. “Hyacinth means something like ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘please forgive me.’” A large flower with a mass of thick, small purple petals comes out next. “Hydrangeas mean apology.”

A delicate, layered pink flower. “Peonies mean shame.” A lush, dark red rose. “Dark red roses are used to denote regret and sorrow. Tea roses mean remembrance.” Another pink flower, with a mass of bright yellow stamens. “Pink camellia means longing and are given to people you miss.” A white trumpet-shaped flower. “Calla lilies mean humility or apology.” A white tulip, the bloom closed tightly. “White tulips are apology flowers.”

A pink carnation. It looks delicate, even in Finn’s thin fingers. The paper-thin pink petals are starting to wither at the ends. “Pink carnations mean that you’ll never be forgotten.” Finn’s voice is soft as he sets the flowers back in their vase.

“Something happened, Roman. This is the kind of bouquet you send on purpose, to apologize, or ask for someone to apologize to you.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Roman down the length of his nose.

Despite the half foot of height difference between them, not to mention the fact that Roman has almost 100 pounds over Finn, he’s never felt more threatened. He knows Finn could take him down with little to no effort, has seen the way the guy trains, has seen his grappling. This is not a fight he wants.

“Someone I was close with in high school moved back to town recently.We didn’t part on good terms, and the conversations we’ve had since they came back haven’t gone super well. I think they think they need to apologize, but it ain’t their fault.” He manages, busying himself with retying his bun instead of looking at Finn. The blue of Finn’s eyes and the slant of his eyelids is like looking at a phantom.

Finn’s face softens in a way that feels like pity, feels like judgment, feels like fucking  _ ignominy _ . The vague curve of his mouth feels like he  _ knows _ . “Take some time to figure out what you’re feeling and then talk to him. Make sure you have a  _ plan _ , for once in your life.” Despite the harsh slant of his eyes, the words don’t feel mean. They feel like a lifeline. There’s an understanding underlying his words, like he knows exactly what Roman is battling with.

Finn goes to leave. He gets halfway to the door before Roman can find the courage to speak. “Finn? How did… how did you know I was talking about a guy?” He sounds small, meek, so unlike himself that it hurts.

“You’ve been playing the pronoun game. I’ll talk to you later.”

Roman just watches Finn leave.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK ON HIS BULLSHIT
> 
> (i may or may not be reading academic papers on queer allusions in Oscar Wilde's works for the next part 👀👀👀)

When Roman finally musters the courage to find Dean, to go to his house, Dean isn’t there. 

The man who answers the door is drenched in tattoos and won’t make eye contact. When he tells Roman that Dean isn’t home, his voice, quiet enough to almost get lost in the wind, is filled with such an intensity it makes Roman’s chest ache.

He feels… _ defeated _ when he returns home. There’s a slightly battered box of beehive-shaped honey cookies in the passenger seat of his van. They’re a weak peace offering, a sad excuse for an olive branch, but Roman can’t help but remember the way Dean used to love sugar like he needed it to breathe.

He sends a text to Jimmy that he won’t be at the bakery. Instead, he sulks at home, busying himself with decorating candles and cutting soaps. His eyes feel like they’re burning and he knows it isn’t because of the lye, knows it’s because of the tears that are burning his throat, tears he won’t let himself shed.

He ignores the call he gets from Seth, ignores the emails he gets about orders, ignores damn near everything for the sake of laying in bed and staring at the ceiling as if it holds the meaning of life. It’s a long endeavor, but at least he has his dog, Rocky, curled up next to him for company. If he can’t have the friendship he wants, she’s a good substitute.

He’s brought out of his wallowing when Finn crashes onto the bed next to him.

Roman starts, almost falling off the bed with the force of his reaction. Finn is undeterred, however, simply settling himself against the pillows and petting Rocky. He has a thermos and a jar of peanut butter with him.

“What are you doing here?” Roman sounds tired, even to himself, but it’s a difficult sort of exhaustion, one that won’t be fixed with sleep. He buries his face in his pillow, drowning out the lazy midday light streaming through his curtains. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with anything right now.

“You’ve been ignoring Seth. He has a class to teach, but you know how he worries, so I offered to come check on you.” There’s a pause, and Roman finds himself turning to look. Finn has a spoon in his mouth, the peanut butter open where it sits tucked into his hoodie pocket. He offers the thermos. “I brought you some hot cider.”

Roman sits up a little and takes the thermos. It’s still warm, and when he takes a sip, it burns his mouth in the best way. He drinks a few greedy sips, the warmth flooding his chest. He hates to admit he’s feeling better already. “This from Bayley’s?” He asks, voice rough in his throat. 

Finn nods. There’s a quiet moment, filled only by Rocky’s happy pants as Finn scratches behind her ears and lets her lick peanut butter off his fingers. Roman lets himself take in the atmosphere, the soft calm, the gentle light, the warmth of the cider. Bayley always did make the best drinks.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Finn asks eventually, turning towards Roman a little bit. His hair is ruffled, and there are soft bruises marking a line down the column of his neck. Roman’s teeth ache looking at them.

He doesn't respond for a bit, weighing his words and emotions in his head. On one hand, he doesn’t know if he can verbalize this without breaking. On the other, he knows he can’t live like this, like a weak container filled with pressure, like a timebomb of emotions waiting to go off. Eventually, he opens his mouth.

“How did you know you were gay?”

His voice cracks under the weight of his emotions, things he can’t say for the sake of his sanity. His hands are trembling around the thermos. He stares at the small water stain on the wall instead of looking at Finn.

For a long, arduous moment, something terrifying in its intensity, Finn is silent. It takes him a while to respond. “It sounds cliche, but I didn’t know until I met Seth.” His voice is soft, kind, full of a love so genuine it steals Roman’s breath. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to experience that. “I just thought I didn’t interact with girls like that because I was shy and focused on school. But when I first saw Seth, at some random football game? It was like a puzzle piece falling into place. All I could think about was how pretty his mouth was, how soft his hair looked, the line of his thighs in the cheerleading uniform. It all made sense then.”

A careful hand brushes the hair from Roman’s eyes. Finn’s fingertips are rough against his cheek and Roman wants him to be someone else so desperately he aches. He gulps, and that’s  _ before _ Finn speaks. 

“Do you think you’re gay?” 

Roman feels like he’s been shot. Everything slows down, his vision tunnels, and he can’t breathe. He almost looks down to check his stomach because there’s no way he can feel this pain, something this sharp and vivid and visceral, without a wound. Time stops around him, and he’s left spiraling, lost in his own mind, stuck with his shame and guilt and repression.

He isn’t aware he’s halfway to hyperventilating until Finn grabs his face. The calluses roughening the soft skin of Finn’s hands catch on Roman’s cheek, fingers digging into his jaw. It doesn’t  _ hurt _ , per se, but it’s definitely uncomfortable, which succeeds in drawing Roman back to the here and now. 

“Roman, breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” Finn’s voice is quiet, calm, like he’s trying not to spook a caged animal. Roman thinks that’s a pretty accurate comparison because he certainly feels like something feral and broken when he pays attention to the emotions in his chest. He forces himself to follow Finn’s instructions, mimicking the slow, steady cycle. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. After a moment, he calms a little; he’s nowhere near anything resembling  _ okay _ , doesn’t think he’s been ok for 15 years, but at least his world doesn’t seem like it’s ending.

“It’s ok. Whatever you say here stays here. I won’t share any of this unless you give me explicit permission to.” Finn is still cupping Roman’s face, like he’s something delicate, two seconds away from breaking. Roman has to choke back tears.

“It’s not that simple, Finn. It’s never that simple.” He hates the way his voice catches, how  _ small _ he sounds, feels like these emotions, the helplessness, the suppression, the  _ fear _ is ingrained in his bones, in his veins, like something he can never get rid of. “You might not tell anyone, but God evesdrops on every conversation I have.” He knows he’s crying, but he’s too busy trying to swallow his panic to care.

Finn grabs Roman’s hand. “You should read some of the letters Oscar Wilde wrote to his partner. And maybe  _ talk _ to someone about this. I can see that this is choking you. This is no way to live, Roman.”

Roman breaks at that. He spends the rest of the evening sobbing into Finn’s chest, wishing the heartbeat belonged to someone else.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i read the entirety of "The Complete Letters of Oscar Wilde" for a throwaway line?? MAYBE
> 
> Also: TRIGGER WARNING! This chapter contains (passing) mentions of self harm, suicidal ideation, and (not so passing) relapsing with alcohol. I am a monster

The next few weeks pass in a blur.

He doesn’t acknowledge what happens with Finn. He goes on like it’s business as usual, as if he didn’t break down in one of his friend’s arms, and doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t listen to Finn’s advice to talk to someone. Even though Finn was right on the money, that this isn’t a way to live, that he hasn’t lived in almost two decades, he doesn’t know  _ who _ he could talk to about this. He loves Seth, but having a genuine, emotional conversation with him is a little bit like talking to a loud, emotionally unavailable brick wall. Finn already knows too much, and Roman doesn’t know if he can handle anything more. He’s known Father Hunter for quite a long time, but somehow, talking to him about this feels like crossing some invisible line.

What he does do is read the letter Finn told him about.

He skims them, to be fair, but there’s a line that catches his eye.  _ You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty; but I don't know how to do it. _ Seeing everything he feels, every forbidden thing he can’t say and shouldn’t feel, written succinctly in black and white feels a little like benediction and a lot like betrayal.

People like Oscar Wilde, people like him, shouldn’t feel these things. Good, practicing Catholic men shouldn’t love other men, shouldn’t look at someone like Dean and think  _ home _ , think  _ hope _ , think  _ w a n t.  _ They shouldn’t think the shameful thoughts Roman thinks when it’s three am and he can’t sleep because Dean isn’t  _ there. _

He’s holding everything together pretty well up until the week before Christmas.

It’s a busy time of year for everyone, but especially for the only bakery in town. Roman’s been cooking nonstop since what feels like August, a continuous flurry of flour and crystal sprinkles, works more than enough hours to justify overtime. He’s pretty sure he’s going to scream if he sees another order for candy cane creme horns. He has a constant headache from the peppermint smell that’s permeated his clothes.

He’s in the process of making a batch of cranberry orange shortbreads (a welcome change of pace from the usual gingerbread and cinnamon fare) when his phone pings obnoxiously. He doesn’t look right away, practically elbow deep in dough. When he finally does, his heart sinks.

_ romab _

_ rojan _

_ rom _

_ roman _

_ heolk _

_ help _

_ i need help _

Dean. Roman hasn’t talked to him in almost 2 months and he wishes he could say he hasn’t thought about him in that time. His hands shake as he reads the texts, something terrible curdling his stomach. The messages are bringing back memories Roman hasn’t recalled in a long, long time. He’s suddenly reminded of all the times Dean’s eyes would be vacant, of the screaming, the scratching, the biting, the hitting, the bandages on Dean’s thighs and the neat white lines on his wrists, of the hallucinations and conversations with people who only breathe in Dean’s mind. He’s reminded of every angry, drunk phone call that invariably ended with Dean sobbing into the phone, suicidal and  _ tired _ .

He doesn’t register calling Dean, but he must, because soon enough he can hear Dean’s ragged breathing in his ear, tinny and distant.

“What’s wrong?” He forms the words with a clumsy tongue, feeling numb and too aware of  _ everything _ , down to the sound of his apron scraping the counter. He’s shaking. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean  _ sobs _ , a deep, heart-wrenching sound, full of a bone-deep sorrow that feels ingrained down to his very atoms. 

It’s not the response Roman’s expecting, isn’t even on the list of what he anticipated, so he’s taken aback by it. All he can manage is a shocked, “ _ What?” _ that feels too harsh, even over the sound of Dean’s wet, ragged breathing. Maybe it sounds too harsh  _ because _ of it.

“I’m sorry. I keep fucking up and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but nothing is going right. I keep pushing you away even though the thought of hurting you makes me sick, I can’t stop my hands from shaking, I, I.” Dean’s words die off in a noise that can only be described as a  _ howl _ . It feels like a physical blow, knocks all the air out of his lungs, makes him lump against the counter like his legs can’t handle the weight of Dean’s words.

“Dean, where are you? Are you safe?” Roman’s voice waivers, breaks on the last word. Roman knows the twins are looking at him, that Seth is whispering something to Finn behind a shaky hand, but he can’t be bothered to give a shit about the potential scene he’s causing because Dean is still sobbing on the other end of the phone.

“Basketball courts. Old ones. I. I don’t know if I’m safe. I’m scared, Roman.” Dean sounds so shattered, pulverized into dust, nothing more than a mass of scars and pain. He sounds like the abused kid Roman met in his junior year, using anger as a front to cover  _ fear _ .

“Stay there, ok? I’m coming to get you.” Dean doesn’t respond, just keeps sobbing, like he’s a child huddled under his covers to hide from the boogeyman. He’s speaking, but it’s incomprehensible under the jagged rasp of his breath and the wet, torn sound of his sobs. Roman stays on the phone, keeping it trapped between his ear and his shoulder. He leaves the kitchen, cookie dough half-formed, still in his apron.

The cheery yellow of the old VW van Roman drives is too bright, harsh and gratingly cheery against the backs of Roman’s eyelids. He’s shaking so bad he almost misses the ignition, adding a few scratches to the plastic of the dashboard. He feels like his heart has been ripped out of his chest, still beating, and thrown into the snow blanketing the ground. Dean’s sobs hurt like a full body tackle, like getting a concussion, brain slamming into his helmet, like tearing his shoulder out of socket off a fucking  _ fumble _ .

He isn’t in his body for the entirety of the drive. He feels like he’s an outsider to his own emotions, acting on autopilot. He’s so distraught that he almost feels numb, so crazed he’s almost calm, so close to tears that nothing wells in his eyes. Finally, after ten long minutes of listening to Dean weeping for forgiveness, he reaches the basketball courts.

He doesn’t see Dean, not immediately, but when he does, his heart stutters in his chest. Dean’s sitting in the snow against the chainlink fence, rocking back and forth, weeping almost silently under the wind. Roman approaches slowly, knows he can’t startle Dean, not when he’s like this, not without making it worse. 

He almost breaks when he sees Dean fully, under the harsh lamplights.

His face is red with the force of crying, wet and twisted. His eyes are red too, bloodshot and overflowing with tears like he hasn’t cried in 15 years. His shoulders are racking, chest heaving with the force of his breath. He’s only wearing a battered leather jacket and ill-fitting jeans, his fingers turning purple in the snow.

The worst part is the half-empty vodka bottle in his grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> write an au where dean jerks roman off in church, they said  
> it'll be fun, they said  
> THIS WAS NOT FUN, I SAY, LOOKING AT THE BROKEN, MANGLED CHARACTERS MY HANDS HAVE WROUGHT


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a small note; i might not update s u p e r frequently bc my college classes have started, i graduate a week from sunday (holy shit) and i have family coming into town. i'll try to add onto this bc i rly like writing it but it just might not be quite as frequent :3

It’s worryingly easy to lead Dean to Roman’s van.

Dean’s freezing, clothes soaked through, fingers like icicles as he grips at Roman’s shirt. He sobs into his chest, feet loose and clumsy beneath him. He’s shaking, furious little twitches that seem to affect his entire body. Roman doesn’t know if it’s from the tears or the cold.

Dean curls in on himself in the passenger seat, his bare feet propped onto the seat, knees against the dashboard, arms wrapped around himself. Roman doesn’t hesitate to take off his thick coat and drape it over Dean. He doesn’t react, other than tucking his face into the collar.

The drive home, which is a scant few minutes, feels like it stretches out for an eternity. The car is silent other than Dean’s shuddering sobs. They’re quieter, at least, and his breathing has evened out a little. Progress, he supposes.

Roman’s heart is no longer in his chest, left behind the moment his phone rang. He’s drowning, stranded, crushed under the weight of every feeling he thought he’d gotten over. It’s been so  _ long _ since he’s seen Dean like this, a broken mess of a man held together by duct tape and rage. It  _ hurts _ , a deep, splanchnic pain that radiates from his core to the tips of his fingers.

It’s all too easy to herd Dean into his house. His chest aches as he thinks about how glad he is that he’s the one that found Dean. 

Dean collapses as soon as they’re in the foyer, and Roman only has a moment to panic before he realizes that Rocky is pressing herself up against Dean like her presence will be enough to make everything ok. 

The thing is, it seems like it’s working.

Dean’s tears have stopped, nothing more than occasional sniffles that might as well be thunder to Roman. His hands are still shaking, but at least he’s using them to scratch the scruff of Rocky’s neck instead of turning them on himself. 

Roman leaves the room, leaves Dean sitting in the entryway with his dog. He goes to his room to grab a change of clothes (all soft and loose, something that won’t make Dean’s skin feel anymore  _ wrong _ than it already does), grabs a thick blanket and makes a final stop in the kitchen to grab a water bottle. He uses the time to try and calm himself, taking deep breaths in a fruitless attempt to steady the tremor in his fingers. If he’s freaking out, it’ll just make things worse. At least one of them needs to be somewhere remotely  _ close _ to calm.

Dean’s still sitting where he was when Roman left, Rocky curled up protectively at his side. Dean’s eyes are closed, head tipped back, short, deep breaths raising his red chest. Roman stops a few feet away, shaken to his core at how…  _ peaceful _ Dean seems, despite the tear tracks streaking down his cheeks.

He must shift his weight, because Dean’s head snaps forwards so quickly it looks painful, eyes wide. Something is Roman turns uneasily at the  _ fear _ he sees in Dean. It’s the last thing he wants. They just…  _ stare _ at each other for a long moment, silence thickening the air to a suffocating degree.

Eventually, Roman speaks. “I grabbed you a dry set of clothes and a blanket. There’s a guest room with its own bathroom, if you want to  stay the night.” He has to clear his throat, voice wavering when he starts. The words feel awkward, like he’s crossing a line, voice heavy with forced casualness. 

Dean nods slowly, still looking at Roman as if he’s seeing a ghost. He is, in a way, Roman supposes. He knows he’s a shadow of the kid he was in high school, just a shell of the boy Dean used to know. He shifts uncomfortably under Dean’s scrutinizing gaze. It’s like Dean is  _ looking _ for something, deliberate even in his panicked state.

Apparently, he likes what he finds, because he rises on unsteady legs. He pauses when he’s fully upright, face pinched, arm braced against the wall. He looks nauseous. After taking that impossibly long moment to steady himself, he takes a slow step forward. Rocky stays glued to his side, her face startlingly serious.

“Lead the way, big guy.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, from the crying, from the screaming, and the smile he offers is weak, forced, feels almost unnatural on his face. 

Roman nods, solemnly, and has to put effort into not placing a hand on Dean’s back. He knows Dean usually doesn’t like being touched, not ever, but especially not when he’s like this. Even if he was, Roman’s not sure he deserves to touch Dean, even in a casual, comforting way. He thinks he gave up that privilege the moment he pushed Dean away.

The guest bedroom is across from Roman’s. It’s a simple room, sparse, with only a nightstand, a bed, a dresser, and a lamp. There’s a small en suite, a cramped excuse of a room, but it’d be better than having to share. Roman sets the clothes and blanket on the foot of the bed and the water bottle on the nightstand. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, can’t get his mouth to work, can’t stop imagining what it would be like to hold Dean until he stops shaking.

Eventually, he manages to get out, “If you need anything, I’m right across the hall. Painkillers coffee, food, anything. Just let me know.” He pauses, has to fight through the forced polite distance before he finds words he thinks will work. “You’re gonna be ok, Dean.” It feels hollow, somehow.

The smile Dean gives him is shaky, but it seems genuine. He nods minutely, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. He grabs the clothes and takes them to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t slam it, doesn’t even shut it hard in any way, but it still sounds like a gunshot and hits Roman about as hard.

He shuffles off to his room, almost in a daze. He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed, trying not to think about the man across the hall. It’s a hard task because Roman hasn’t stopped thinking about Dean since he came back (if he’s being honest, which he only ever is at three am when he can’t sleep, he hasn't stopped thinking about Dean since he met him).

He doesn’t sleep a wink, his brain too preoccupied with imagining what Dean looks like wearing Roman’s clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't. as bad. as it could be lmao


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY A SEMI HAPPY CHAPTER

Roman gets out of bed before the sun rises. 

That in and of itself isn’t unusual. It’s his routine, to get up at an ungodly hour, because he needs the time to bake everything for the bakery. What’s unusual about today is the fact that he stays home, watches the sunrise through the front windows, nursing a cup of coffee in numb hands.

Well. That isn’t the  _ only _ unusual thing about today.

Roma feels hyperaware of Dean’s presence, even though the younger man is still asleep. He keeps walking by the guest bedroom door, looking at it as if it’ll disappear if he stares enough. He can hear the distant noise of Dean snoring, and it’s something so familiarly foreign, something that sounds like a memory too far gone to remember. He never realized that a sound could feel like home before. 

He lets the twins know he won’t be coming into the bakery today and that he might not be there the next few days either. It’s a gut feeling, that he won’t have the time to go into the bakery, that he’ll be needed elsewhere, but he’s always been someone who follows his gut. He gets an immediate response, reassurance from both of his cousins that they’ve got it covered. It makes him feel a little bit better, at least.

Roman’s not used to having this much  _ time _ . Usually, he’s working, constantly in the kitchen, elbow deep in flour and dough to fill never ending orders. He can’t remember the last time he went on vacation. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know if he’s ever even  _ taken _ a vacation.

He spends his time doing things for work, he realizes. He checks the wooden apiary in his backyard, makes sure the bees are still alive and warm enough, collects the little bit of beeswax that he can. It’s too cold for honey production, and the wax is starting to get brittle. It’s unusually cold this winter, dropping way beyond the usual temperature in Florida. It’s made some issues for the bees.

He sets some soaps to harden and cuts others into neat cubes, slices, and circles. He carves some into buttons, others into gemstones, letting his mind get lost in the monotony of the glide of his knife through the soap. He pours candles with the wax he has stored, making sure none of the molds or pots overflow and none of the wicks fall in. 

He takes a break after a few hours, gathers all the ingredients he needs for kale moa. It’s hard work, but he needs the comfort food, needs something that reminds him of his family, of happier times. Besides, he remembers Dean liking the traditional foods Roman’s mom used to make.

He’s focused on his cooking, so absorbed in his pots and pans that he doesn’t notice Dean until he turns around and sees him sitting at the counter. 

Dean looks… well, he looks like death warmed over. His skin is pallid, lacking any of the color associated with  _ life _ . His face seems gaunt, like he hasn’t been eating enough despite the full, muscular frame he possesses. Large, dark circles hang from his eyes, sunken in and bloodshot. There’s the beginnings of a bruise streaking across his cheek, red and splotchy underneath his beard. His lower lip is split, the wound too fresh to scab over.

Roman turns and pours a mug of coffee and puts it in the microwave. He doesn’t say anything, can’t find any words that seem fitting for this situation. He’s at a loss, drowning, trying to tread water but failing. Instead, he looks down at his cooking and tries to focus on anything other than the weight of Dean’s gaze.

The microwave beeps, so Roman grabs the mug with shaky fingers and hands it to Dean. Dean looks down at it for a moment, eyes watery, before he takes a sip. For a moment, Roman’s confused by the emotions painted across Dean’s face before he realizes.

The mug cradled in Dean’s hands is the one he used to use in high school. Roman wasn’t even aware he still had it, but there’s no doubt that it’s the same mug. The porcelain is chipped, a large chunk popped off from when Dean dropped it during an argument their senior year. The handle is still wrapped in woven threads, but the colors are faded to almost nothing, the fabric fraying and missing in some spots. The doodle on the bottom is still there, a small, smiling cat with a balloon tied to its tail sitting next to a grumpy dog, a heart floating between them.

Dean finishes the coffee and slides the mug across the counter. Roman fills and reheats it without much thought. It feels familiar, having Dean slumped at the counter, a mug of coffee spinning in the microwave. He’s suddenly brought back to lazy Saturday mornings in high school when Roman had been awake for hours and Dean was just getting up at noon, nonverbal until he had his second cup of coffee.

It feels painfully domestic to hand Dean his second cup, finger brushing against each other for just a tad too long to be accidental. Dean gives him a barely-there smile, nothing more than the quirk of the corner of his mouth, something so genuine and soft that it hurts like a punch to the gut. Roman can’t bring himself to maintain eye contact.

He doesn’t look at Dean even when he speaks, focusing on the chicken cooking in front of him instead. “How’re you feeling?” There’s a strained disinterest in his words, a self-imposed aloofness. It sounds  _ fake _ , even to Roman, who has to fight back a wince.

“Like I got run over by a semi-truck and ate roadkill.” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, sounds like he’s been screaming for twenty years and gargles gravel for the hell of it. Roman can  _ feel _ the discomfort coming off of Dean, can hear it in his words, something that radiates off him in waves. It feels dangerous, the way Dean’s guarded, something between a warning and an SOS signal.

Roman doesn’t know what to say, so he settles on a neutral response. “Lunch will be ready in probably a half hour, if you’re staying for food.” He shrugs, a sorry excuse for nonchalance, but it’s the only thing he can think to do.

“What’re you cooking?” Dean’s voice sounds  _ much _ closer than the breakfast bar. When Roman looks up from the pan, he sees Dean standing at his side, so close they’re almost touching. He tears his eyes away, clears his throat to stop words he can’t say from tumbling out.

“It’s kale moa. It’s kind of like a chicken curry.” He doesn’t let himself say things like, “ _ I remember you liked spicy food,”  _ and “ _ having you here with me feels like I can breathe for the first time in 15 years.” _ There’s a swell of emotions in his chest, leaching into his throat, but he can’t identify any of them. For once, though, they aren’t suffocating, aren’t something he has to choke down. They feel warm, comforting, like the first sip of hot cocoa on a cold morning, like the twinkle of Christmas lights at dusk.

Dean smiles, a minute thing that changes his entire face. His eyes seem brighter, still irritated and sunken but with something lighthearted sparkling in the depths. The apples of his cheeks bunch, something that, paired with the ginger scruff covering his jaw and the crooked slant of his front teeth, makes him look like an excited chipmunk. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet, shoulders shifting like he has too much energy to contain.

“I’ve gotta admit,” Dean starts, hands fidgetting with the hem of the shirt he’s wearing, “I really missed all of your family’s cooking. I almost thought about asking your mom for some recipes.” He looks down shyly, the tips of his ears turning a little red.

Roman barely hears what he says. He’s too busy really  _ looking _ at Dean for the first time today. 

The clothes Roman leant him are way too big, which isn’t really a surprise given the size difference between them. The t-shirt, a soft grey garment that’s been worn so much the hems are failing, hangs off Dean’s frame. The collar is crooked, the sleeve slipping down his arm to reveal the pale, scarred skin of Dean’s shoulder and the knob of his collarbone. The pajama pants are too long, covering the tops of his bony feet. Despite the drawstring being cinched tight and double-knotted, they still threaten to fall off Dean’s slim waist. 

There are a number of tattoos visible on Dean’s arms, neck, and shoulder. Bold, dark blacks and bright colors are pressed under his skin, words and pictures and swirls decorating his flesh. None of them really stand out; it’s the additions they provide to Dean that matters. Accompanying them are piercings, metal speared through skin in a deliberate way. Roman counts several: two lips rings, a septum piercing, countless pieces of metal adorning Dean’s ears, a safety pin speared through the top of his ear, a chain connecting an ear piercing to a nose ring. When he speaks, Roman catches a flash of metal near his teeth and on his tongue.

Dean’s filled out considerably; it shouldn't be a surprise since it’s been fifteen god damn years, but Roman still remembers the twig of a best friend he had. Dean’s arms are  _ massive, _ his chest and shoulders broad, broad, broad. His thighs are well muscled, almost thick enough to fill out Roman’s pajama pants. It makes his waist seem even tinier, something slim and  _ delicate _ .

Dean blinks at Roman, head tilted inquisitively. Roman flushes, realizing he’s been caught staring. He ducks his head, swallows the flood of embarrassment and shame that threatens to pull him under. He turns back to cooking, focusing on making sure nothing burns.

Dean stays in the kitchen with him, sitting on the counter, trying to sneak food from the pan without Roman noticing.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s shockingly easy to have Dean around.

Despite everything that’s happened, all the time that’s passed, all the emotions that sit between them like a physical thing, Roman can’t help but relax. There’s something comfortable,  _ right _ , about having Dean stealing food from the pan as he cooks, about seeing Dean scarfing down food at his stained coffee table. It’s familiar in a delightfully foreign way.

It’s so…  _ domestic _ to start washing dishes and feel Dean stand next to him on drying duty. Their shoulders keep touching, fingers brushing as they hand off dishes, warmth radiating between them. There are goosebumps along Roman’s arms, little shivers spreading down his spine. He wishes he could blame it on the cold.

“Can we talk?” Dean’s voice is quiet. He’s not looking at Roman; instead, he’s looking down at the last dish, moving the dish towel in furious circles. Roman wouldn’t be surprised if the dish shattered in his hand.

“Sure. Wanna sit down?” Roman concentrates on his words, making sure they don’t reveal the concern flooding him. His heart is jackrabbiting, pounding against his ribcage. He can feel his pulse in his palms.

Dean nods and shuffles into the living room, staring at his feet the entire way. He sits at one end of Roman’s beat up couch, posture wooden, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t look up when Roman sits down, leaving as much space between them as he can on his narrow sofa.

“I don’t have a place to stay.” Dean’s words come out in a rush, directed at the scuffed hardwood floor. He fiddles with the drawstring of his pants, winding and unwinding it around his index finger, pulling it tight enough to cut off circulation. His knee bounces restlessly.

Roman’s brow furrows. “I thought you had a place and a roommate.” He remembers the intense, soft-spoken man he’d met when he went to talk to Dean, remembers sitting on the roof of the trailer stargazing with Dean only a few months ago.

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his close shaved hair. It’s a familiar gesture, and Roman’s willing to bet that, if he still had the thick curls he did in high school, he’d be tugging on them. “That’s kinda the problem. Aleister and I had an agreement that I could stay there as long as I stayed sober. I fucked up, we got in a fight. Now all I’ve got is some beat up clothes and a nice shiner for my troubles.” He laughs a little bitterly.

“Can I ask what happened?” Roman doesn’t know why he’s asking. Well, he knows  _ the reason _ he’s asking; he has a soft spot for Dean a mile wide and can’t help but be worried and want to know more. He’s not going to delude himself though, knows he has no right to any information about Dean, especially not about something this personal. He bites his tongue and clenches his hands in his lap to keep from reaching out.

Dean rolls his jaw. He’s silent for a long moment and Roman can’t tell if he’s weighing his words or deciding whether or not to even  _ tell _ Roman. Eventually, he shrugs, a jerky movement of his shoulder that feels like a twitch. “Had a real bad day. Had to deal with some real assholes at work, my bike wouldn’t start, and the voices were being massive dickheads.” His head jerks to the side, his neck popping loudly.

Roman doesn’t really know what to say, but thankfully, he’s saved from awkward silence by Dean continuing. “They were worse than normal. Louder and angrier. They kept telling me everything I’ve ever done wrong, how much of a piece of shit I am, blaming me for everything.” He swallows hard. Roman’s eyes follow the slide of his Adam’s apple, the way it stretches the thin skin of his neck, the slight catch as it returns to its normal position. He’s so distracted that he almost misses Dean’s next sentence.

“It’s not like they’re wrong, but it still sucks being reminded.”

Roman moves without thinking, drawing Dean into his arms. Dean stiffens like he’s been burned, tense and compact, too stunned to move away from Roman. He’s cold, still, his arms speckled with goosepimples, the fine hair raised on end. He’s shaking, but whether it’s due to the cold, the emotions, or the sudden contact, Roman doesn’t know.

“They’re not right, Dean.” Roman mumbles, words pressed into the top of Dean’s head. He’s sagged a little, still not quite relaxed, resting against Roman’s chest. His head shakes vigorously, knocking against Roman’s chin.

“If they were wrong, I wouldn’t be…  _ this _ .” He mutters, fingers flexing and unflexing repeatedly against Roman’s leg. His voice is so raw, vulnerable in all the wrong ways, and it  _ hurts _ . Roman hugs him tighter. 

Dean doesn’t fight it.

“There’s nothing wrong with what you are, Dean.” Roman has to forms the words around the lump in his throat. The words are so thick, so heavy, that it’s hard to breathe around them. He’s trying to stay attentive, but all he can really focus on is the way Dean smells (all worn leather and stale cigarettes and motor oil) and the way he fits in Roman’s lap (like he was  _ made _ to be there).

“ _ What I am _ , Roman, is a druggie ex-con who can barely hold a job and can’t stay sober.” Dean’s laugh is humorless, bitter, almost  _ mean _ . “Hell, every interaction with you since I got back has ended with one of us leaving because I fuck it up.” There’s anger in his every word, at himself and the world, apparent even in the slump of his shoulders. 

Roman blinks hard, eyes stinging with the invisible threat of tears. He gulps, throat tight with emotions and words he won’t let himself say. “None of that was your fault, Dean. I’m the one that can’t deal with my own fucking feelings.” He rests his chin on Dean’s head, enjoying the scratch of Dean’s hair against his jaw.

Dean sighs, and as he exhales, his body goes almost limp. He relaxes into Roman, his arms wrapping around Roman’s where they’re barred across Dean’s torso. “Guess we’re both fuck ups, huh.” He chuckles, and while it still sounds empty, there’s some humor in there somewhere.

Roman laughs. “I think we knew that all the way back in high school.” He murmurs, nuzzling against Dean’s head. Dean snuggles back, humming in agreement. It’s comfortable, to look out the window at the steadily melting snow, bodily feeling Dean’s breathing. It feels warm,  _ right _ , like coming home after a long trip, like coming home after a long day and sliding into bed, like a blanket just out of the dryer.

They stay curled up like that long after they lose track of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f i n a l l y casual contact has been made lmao


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catholic guilt is strong but thirst is stronger

Life goes back to normal after that.

Well. Life goes back to a normal long since passed. Life goes back to the normal of high school, when Roman laughed and smiled and woke up to hearing Dea’s snores. It’s something uncomplicated in its simplicity, something he can fall back into as naturally as breathing. Suddenly, it’s easy to forget the years of disconnected silence and bitterness, because Dean’s  _ here _ , sitting at Roman’s table, playing in his backyard with Rocky, smiling like nothing ever happened.

The guest room, which was always a formality of Roman’s house, something never used, became  _ Dean’s room _ , with his clothes scattered on the floor and in the drawers. His motorcycle is parked in the driveway more often than not, his helmet propped on the wobbly coat rack by the door. His muddy boots sit next to Roman’s, and his leather jacket is always tossed over the back of his chair at the table.

There are still boundaries between them that weren’t there before.

Roman doesn’t wake up at 2 am to Dean sliding into his bed after a nightmare. They don’t sit and do nothing but talk for hours on end, gorging themselves on junk food and soda. They don’t spend time together in small ways, doing their own thing in the same room in companionable silence. It’s ok, though. Roman doesn’t know if he could handle things going back to how they were in that twilight time of  _ before _ .

The peace lasts for about a week.

It’s right before Christmas when everything implodes. Roman’s still working overtime, his hands aching from kneading large batches of dough, the smell of cinnamon and ginger sunk into his clothes and clinging to his hair. He’s at the bakery more often than not, only at home for sleeping, showers, and to take care of Rocky. He’s  _ tired _ , and the holiday rush can’t end quick enough.

Dean tends to stay at the house, only working at the garage two or three times a week. He spends time with Rocky and learns how to help with the soaps and candles. He’s better at carving them than Roman is, practiced with a knife in a way Roman simply isn’t. He tries not to think about  _ why _ .

The day before Christmas Eve, Jimmy tells him to go home early. Orders have slowed down a little, and it’s such routine stuff that the twins can run everything smoothly. Roman’s glad to have the break, so he takes the gift and hangs up his apron. 

It’s dumb, really, but Roman doesn’t tell Dean he’s coming home early because he wants to surprise him. He has time off for Christmas, and this makes it another half-day he can spend with the younger man. He tries not to think about the way his chest warms when he thinks about Dean and what that means.

Dean’s motorcycle is in the driveway when Roman parks, and his jacket and keys are still in their usual spots. He shuts the door quietly behind him, trying not to wake Rocky, who’s sleeping on the couch. The house is quiet, still, almost as if there’s no one home. Roman’s about to concede that maybe Dean’s out when he hears it.

Moaning.

Clear as day, coming from the bedrooms. Heat flushes Roman’s face, full of shame and embarrassment and something else Roman can’t name. He stays glued to the spot like a deer in headlights, staring towards the bedrooms like maybe if he doesn’t move, the noises will stop.

The noises don’t stop.

Against his better judgment, Roman walks forwards. He can’t get himself to stop even though he knows he should, even though all the years of fear and shame and repression are threatening to choke him. The moans get louder as he gets closer, quicker, higher in pitch.

Finally, after an eternity, Roman is at the door to Dean’s room. He takes a long, deep breath, staring at his feet. He looks up.

It’s empty.

He’s confused for only a moment before he realizes where the noises are coming from. They’re coming from behind him.

They’re coming from Roman’s bedroom.

He pivots slowly, eyes focused on the ground. For a long moment, he keeps his eyes down, simply listening to the high, breathy noises Dean’s making. It takes more willpower than he’d care to admit to look up.

Dean’s… quite frankly, he looks gorgeous. He’s on his knees, shoulders pressed to the mattress. His thighs are shaking, muscles tight with tension. His ass is… Roman’s pretty sure he’s drooling just looking at it. Logically, he knew Dean had filled out, gained muscle where he used to be skin and bones, but it’s another thing entirely to  _ see _ it. His thighs are like fucking  _ tree trunks _ , his back a line of corded muscle. His biceps are large, flexing as he moves his hand.

Roman isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s thought about Dean like this, in the early hours of the morning. Well, he’s ashamed, for sure, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care. Of all the thoughts he’s had about Dean, though, he’d never thought about  _ this _ , because instead of the cock Roman’s expecting, Dean has a cunt.

He has a toy shoved into himself, something thick and veiny. He’s stretched around it to the point it almost looks  _ painful _ , but he doesn’t seem to mind, if the high, breathy moans eeking from his throat are anything to go by. He’s fucking  _ dripping _ , so wet it’s smearing along the fingers holding the toy. He’s fucking himself roughly, teeth clenched in the pillow to try and muffle the  _ sounds _ .

The fact that Dean is doing this  _ in Roman’s bed _ hits him like a bolt of lightning, makes heat pool in his pelvis. He’s painfully hard, pressed against the zipper of his jeans in a way that  _ hurts _ . He can  _ smell _ Dean, the thick, heady scent of his come, can practically taste the desperation in the air. He watches closely as Dean twists the toy on the upstroke, shuddering with the motion. Dean’s free hand reaches under to play with his swollen cock, running the rough pad of his thumb against the head. He  _ whines _ , a needy, breathless sound as his hands work overtime.

Dean’s thighs are shaking almost violently, the entrance of his cunt twitching around the toy. The noises leaving his throat are getting higher, more frequent,  _ sharper. _ They feel like a punch to the gut in the best way possible.

Roman’s the hardest he’s ever been, and that’s  _ before _ Dean starts talking.

“Fuck, feels so good.” Dean’s voice is little more than a rasp, worn down from moaning, thick and rough in his throat. “Ng, feels so fucking _ big _ in me.” Roman’s brain short circuits. “C’mon, Roman, fuck me.”

Any blood left in Roman’s brain drains south.

He has to actively focus to avoid rutting against the doorframe. He’s  _ dizzy _ , can’t focus on anything other than the work of art Dean makes on his bed. His moans sound like gospel, smoother than any of the hymns Roman grew up memorizing. Suddenly, nothing seems more holy than the shake of Dean’s thighs.

Dean comes suddenly, back arching like a snapped bowstring. He leaves the toy in himself but stops jittering it. His fingers lazily stroke his cock, which twitches the same way the muscles of his cunt flutter. He pants for a moment, skin flushed and sated.

“I’m surprised by the amount of self-control you have, big guy.” Dean rasps, knees collapsing from under him. He whines as the toy jostles inside him. “I thought you’d have a hand down your pants by now.”

Roman gapes, mouth working around nothing like a fish out of water. Heat floods his face, embarrassment for being caught and shame for looking in the first place. Despite being found out, though, he stays where he is. It was probably cowardice to linger in the shadows, but stepping into the light feels too much like willingness. He tears his eyes away from the gleam of Dean’s come, looking down at the floor instead. 

“I’m sorry.” He manages, voice rough like he’s been screaming for 20 years. His throat feels like a desert, dry and sticky. 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Don’t be. I wanted you to look. Wouldn’t have done this in your room if I didn’t want it.” He mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow. He carefully slides the toy out of himself, harsh little gasps falling from his lips as he does so. He tosses it aside and Roman can’t look away from the stretch of Dean’s entrance.

“Why  _ are _ you in my room?” It seems like the safest question, given the circumstances. Despite it all, Roman’s cock is still hard, throbbing in the confines of his jeans almost  _ angrily _ .

“It smells like you. Gets me all hot and bothered thinking of getting my come all over your stuff.” Dean groans, rolling onto his back. His legs fall open, but Roman isn’t looking. Instead, his eyes are locked onto the swell of Dean’s chest. Roman always assumed it was just Dean’s pecs, but the soft curve suddenly seems like something else entirely given the situation.

Dean grins, something  _ filthy _ , his hand skimming up his ribcage. He rolls his thumb over his nipple, bringing it to a hard point. He sighs, a low, satisfied sound, as his hips jerk lazily. His cock is still swollen, slick and lube shining against the head.

Roman’s so caught up in replaying everything in his head that he doesn’t realize Dean’s moved until he hears knees hit the floor.

He looks down and sees Dean grinning up at him through thick lashes. There’s a blush settled high on his cheeks, sweat gleaming across his skin. A bead of moisture rolls down his sternum, carving a line between Dean’s tits. Roman can’t breathe.

“Looks like you’ve got a problem there, big guy. Need any help?” Dean’s voice is like sex personified, liquid and smooth. He rests a hand on Roman’s thigh, just low enough to be considered platonic if it wasn’t for  _ everything else about this _ .

Roman doesn’t know why he says what he does. Maybe it’s because he’s overworked, or he’s tired of forcing everything down, or maybe he’s just weak to Dean, even after all this time. Whatever the reason, he slides a hand through Dean’s hair and says, “What do you plan to do?”

Dean melts under the touch, nuzzling into Roman’s palm. His hand slides up, starts fiddling with Roman’s belt. “God, what  _ wouldn’t _ I do? There are so many options. I could jack you off, feel you pulse and twitch in my hand.” He slides his fingers down to caress the bulge of Roman’s crotch. “I could drag you over to the bed and fuck myself on your cock.” He takes a deep breath.

“What I really want to do right now is suck you off. I wanna feel you on my tongue, feel you grip my hair, make you lose control and fuck my face.” He leans forward and presses his cheek against Roman’s cock. “I wanna taste you.” He breathes, mouthing at Roman’s dick.

His mouth is  _ obscene _ , wet and open and bitten red. His lips are swollen, stained cherry with desire. He looks like the definition of  _ sin _ , looks fucked out but still not sated. The pink of his tongue as it drags up his zipper looks like temptation itself.

Roman makes the decision right then and there that he’s fine going to Hell for this, because Dean’s mouth looks like Heaven enough.

He can’t bring himself to speak, feels wrong even trying to voice everything he shouldn’t want but does anyway. Instead, he tightens his grip on Dean’s hair and pulls, just a little. A soft, sweet moan falls from Dean’s lips, his eyes going a little vacant at the pain. Roman nudges him forwards just a bit. It’s a light movement, gentle, grip lose enough that Dean can get out if he wants to.

He doesn’t get out of it. Instead, he grins and leans forwards, mouthing against Roman’s cock. The pressure feels like  _ too much _ even through the denim of his jeans. Dean’s hands reach up and undo his belt, his button, his zipper. He makes eye contact the whole time, pupils wide with lust. 

“ _ Fuck _ , you’re pretty.” Dean breathes, dragging his index finger down the line of Roman’s cock. He groans, biting his lip to muffle the sound, as his dick twitches. Dean’s smile goes filthy, smug and self-satisfied, as he drags Roman’s boxers and jeans down to his thighs.

Roman almost jumps when Dean’s lips first touch him. It’s almost  _ chaste _ , if anything about this could be considered anywhere near chaste, just the touch of his lips against Roman’s shaft. He trails his lips down, a series of kisses, all the way down to where his hand is gripping Roman at the base. He leads those kisses up to the head, still closed mouthed and gentle.

He makes sure Roman’s making eye contact as he lets his tongue out and  _ licks _ .

Roman’s moan is shaky, half hidden behind his hand. He can’t look away from the pink of Dean’s tongue, the flush across his cheeks, his sex-mussed hair. Dean’s free hand is planted on the floor between his thighs, and the motion pushes his tits together.

Roman doesn’t think he’s been breathing this whole time.

“Don’t muffle it. I wanna hear what I do to you.” Dean murmurs, and the huff of his breath against Roman’s saliva-slick head feels like a punch to the gut. He drags his lower lip against the head, slides Roman’s cock into his mouth, eyes half-lidded. His mouth is  _ tightwethot, _ is  _ toomuchtoomuchtoomuch, _ feels like damnation and absolution all at once.

Roman feels like he’s on fire, like his blood has turned into lightning, into molten metal, hot and heavy in his veins. He’s floating, drowning, everything at once. Dean’s mouth is like a brand, his stare a physical thing. Roman feels like he’s  _ living _ for the first time.

Dean does…  _ something _ with his tongue, draws a lazy pattern just under Roman’s head. It’s something so simple, done with a sense of casualness and ease, but it feels like Roman’s been  _ flayed alive _ , open and exposed. He can feel his pulse in his palms, in his ears, in the pit of his stomach. It’s like there’s a bowstring tied between the bottom of his ribs and the hollow of his pelvis, growing tighter and tighter as Dean keeps moving his tongue.

Dean pauses for a moment, the first few inches of Roman’s cock in his mouth, like he’s letting Roman  _ adjust _ . It feels considerate and intimate in a way Roman can’t deal with, like his heart has been yanked out of his chest, still beating. He waits until Roman’s breathing has approached something close to normal before forcing his head down.

The slide is like nothing Roman’s ever felt before. His hand could never  _ compare _ , can’t even come close to the heat of Dean’s mouth, the texture of his tongue, the threat of teeth just a hair's breadth away. Roman makes a noise in the back of his throat, choked out and strangled. He’s never heard anything  _ remotely _ like the noise that comes out of his throat, and Dean just  _ keeps going _ .

Dean doesn’t stop until his nose is pressed to Roman’s pelvis, throat constricting around Roman’s cock. There’s a weird feeling in Roman’s chest, a mix of  _ power _ and  _ helplessness _ , something dizzying in its intensity. Dean gags slightly, his throat spasming as he just  _ sits there _ with Roman’s cock half down his throat. 

He comes up for air after what feels like a lifetime, coughing and gasping. His face has gone redder, the flush reaching the tips of his ears and the top of his throat. His lips are shining with spit, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are vacant, fuck dumb and lidded. He only gives himself a moment’s respite before he’s back on Roman like a man starved.

Roman’s hand slides to cradle the back of Dean’s skull, the scrape of nails and calluses over close-shorn hair. He doesn’t try to control Dean, just grounds himself by feeling the scrape of Dean’s shave against his palm. Dean  _ moans _ at the contact, eyes fluttering as he jolts forwards.

Roman’s comfortably floating, whole body tingling with pleasure. He doesn’t think he’s close, doesn’t think he has a hair-trigger, until he sees Dean’s hand moving. His left on is on the floor between his thighs, keeping himself balanced, but his right one is between his legs. He’s stroking his cock, short, lazy strokes that have his hips rolling.

It takes Roman from  _ this feels pretty good _ to  _ holy shit holy shit holy shit _ in an embarrassingly short amount of time. 

His fingers scratch against Dean’s scalp as he accidentally  _ pulls  _ without meaning to, his hips jerking forwards. Dean chokes, throat spasming around the head of Roman’s cock. He  _ moans _ , something loud and unabashed and  _ hoarse _ and fuck, that shouldn’t be hot but it  _ is _ , to hear how Dean’s affected. Dean’s hips start jerking, hand speeding up in a way that has him whining.

The vibrations of Dean’s sounds create a feedback loop of pleasure, buzzing along Roman’s nerves until he’s shaking. His thighs are trembling, his fingers gripping Dean’s short hair in a way that’s gotta be painful. He doesn’t seem to mind, if the  _ noises _ he’s making are anything to go by. It sounds like gospel, like the Song of Songs, like every piece of scripture he was never allowed to read.

Everything in Roman reaches a fever pitch, the pleasant heat in the pit of his pelvis turning so hot it’s  _ cold _ . He feels like he’s vibrating, like his atoms are going to shake apart. He can’t keep his hips still, making barely restrained thrusts against Dean’s face. Dean’s mouth feels so good it’s almost  _ painful _ , like absolution and benediction and damnation all wrapped up into a pair of lips.

When he comes, it’s with a choked out warning and his fingers tightening in Dean’s hair. He feels himself pulse against Dean’s tongue, feels Dean swallow around him. He almost doubles over, the  _ pleasure _ of it burning white against his eyelids, the  _ intensity _ of it like a punch to the gut. He lets out a sound that can only be described as a  _ sob _ as Dean  _ keeps licking _ , like he’s desperate to make this last, like this is the only time he’ll get to do this, like he needs this to  _ live _ . He keeps at it until Roman’s almost in tears, oversensitive but too wrapped up in the way it  _ burns _ to even think about pulling away.

Dean shudders, a full body tremble as his thighs tighten. He  _ whines _ , high in the back of his throat as he hips jolt against his hand before he slouches. Roman’s cock slips from his mouth as he pants.

Dean’s lips are  _ red _ , swollen, covered in saliva and rubbed raw. There’s drool slipping down his throat, everything he couldn’t contain leaving his skin glistening. His chest is heaving like he’s just run a marathon, his breath shaky and uneven. He leans his head against Roman’s thigh and gives him a hazy smile, something warm and pleasant and  _ good _ .

Roman’s pretty sure he understands why this is considered a  _ sin _ , because anything that feels like  _ this _ is too good to be allowed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYY IM NOT DEAD

A week.

A week is how long Roman lasts before breaking down.

He doesn’t talk to Dean. He spends almost all his time at the bakery, working and working and  _ working _ until his arms are aching and his hands feel like they’re going to fall off. He only goes home to shower and sleep. 

He spends Christmas with his family, eating too much food and trying to not think about what happened. Shame clings to him like wet denim, blanketing his every nerve. He feels watched,  _ judged _ , like everyone knows what he did. He can’t look his mom in the eye without seeing his own failures reflected back at him. Every slap on the back he gets from his dad feels like fruitless penance.

He’s with Finn when he finally breaks, because of  _ course _ he is.

Finn is the one that knows all of Roman’s  _ issues _ . They were never super close in school, but for some reason, Finn has always been the one to find all of Roman’s shit. He’s probably the only person that Roman interacts with regularly that has any sort of emotional maturity.

They’re at Finn’s beat up kitchen table, going over pastry designs. Finn has an eye for detail, a creative spark that Roman lacks. He always helps with soap and candle patterns, with pastry shapes, all the little minutiae that Roman was never good at. Seth’s working late, has clients booked practically til midnight. It’s something that happens this time of year, when people create new year’s resolutions to go to the gym that they’ll, inevitably, give up on. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it’s just Finn and Roman and Seth’s Yorkie in the cramped kitchen and Roman still hasn’t told  _ anyone _ .

Roman doesn’t know what sets him off. Maybe it’s the way that Finn’s eyes remind him of Dean’s, lazy and lidded and so blue it  _ hurts _ . Maybe it’s the delicate lines of his fingers tracing across the paper. Maybe it’s the hickeys painted across Finn’s skin, the slight red glow of beardburn against his skin, the bruises on Finn’s wrists, the nail crescents still dented into his hips, visible whenever he stretches. Maybe it’s the way Finn looks at Seth, filled with love and adoration, something that Roman  _ desperately _ wants but can’t get.

Whatever it is, it ends with Roman  _ shaking _ . 

Everything crashes down around him, every wall he’s carefully built to protect himself tumbling to the ground. His stomach  _ aches _ , nausea and guilt and a million other emotions rising in his throat. He can’t breathe, doesn’t think he’s breathed in a week, can’t close his eyes without seeing Dean on his knees. 30 years worth of sermons and scripture and  _ conditioning _ threaten to choke him, wrap around his throat like a god damn noose.

Finn tries to touch him, nothing more than a gentle hand on the shoulder, but Roman  _ reacts _ . He lashes out, flinging his arm to the side. He feels it connect with Finn but he doesn’t  _ care _ because if anyone even  _ thinks _ about touching him he’s going to break all over again.

Maybe he was never whole in the first place.

A hand gripping his hair is what snaps him out of it.

It  _ hurts _ , pain radiating through his scalp, along his skull. The pain settles him a little, chases some of the clusterfuck out of his brain. It doesn’t fix anything, but it  _ helps _ , enough that he can look at Finn’s frown without feeling like he’s been flayed alive.

“Use your words like an adult, please.” Finn doesn’t let go of Roman’s hair, even as he sits down. His eyes are set in a glare, concerned and dark. He feels like he’s been ripped open and Finn is hunting through his insides, like he’s being examined in the most clinical way. He can’t hide this even if he wanted to.

“I slept with Dean.” He blurts out, the words yanked from his chest. He almost sobs upon saying them; it feels  _ good _ to get it off his chest. It’s been eating him alive, corrosive in the pit of his stomach, destructive and all-consuming. 

Finn lets go of Roman’s hair. He looks shocked, which is a fair reaction. The depths of his stare feel like judgment, feel like absolution, feel like everything he doesn’t deserve. Finn’s silent, for a long moment, simply… looking.

“I know this is an issue for you due to your religion, but I want you to really  _ think _ about why this is bad.” Finn’s quiet for a moment longer, weighing words and options in his head. His hand rests on Roman’s the touch soft, like he’s giving an out. “Can you help me understand?”

Roman’s breath rushes out of him in a moment. He shuffles through his thoughts, all the words threatening to choke him, before he finds something he can verbalize without feeling sick. “It’s hard to explain. I think the issue is that this… this was never for me. What you and Seth have was never something I was going to get. I don’t have the option of lov-” He cuts himself off. “Of being with someone like Dean. “ He laughs bitterly. “There’s also the fact that I pushed Dean away, that he’s been gone for 15 years, that this isn’t going to be smoothed over just because I walked in on him.”

Finn stands and rummages through the cabinets for a moment. The moment of solitude, of contemplation, makes Roman’s vision go fuzzy. He can’t breathe around his repression, can’t think without 15 years worth of mistakes flooding his mind, can’t blink without seeing a plush red mouth against the backs of his eyelids. Instead, he stares at his hands and tries to not think about how Dean reacted to his hair. He fails.

Finn comes back after a short moment that feels like an eternity. In his hands is a small box, wood worn with age. He cradles it like it’s something sacred. Maybe it is.

He puts it on the table and opens it, his touch ginger and reverent. Inside is a small ceramic dish, and, on the underside of the lid, is a neat script burned into the wood. Finn slides it over with shaky hands.

The dish is painted black, with a floral print over it. It reminds Roman of the little trinkets in his childhood home. The scripture is what catches his eye, though, is what causes tears to well up in his throat.

“Peter 4:8. Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” Finn’s voice is quiet, small. He clears his throat. “My mom gave me this right around the time she passed. She and I had an argument over my relationship with Seth, and she wanted to rectify that before she…” He blinks away tears.

When he looks at Roman, there are tears shining in his eyes and a sad smile on his face. “You can’t keep these things bottled up. It’s going to kill you, Roman. It’s no way to live. I promise you, no matter what, that God loves you. He gave you these feelings, these impulses, these urges, these desires. I know you trust Him, so trust that everything you feel is okay.” He clasps Roman’s hands in his.

Roman can’t manage a  _ thank you _ around the tears in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Hard™ to find Bible verses about love that aren't Y I K E S


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, do yall want a part with minimum angst? BC DO I HAVE A PART FOR YOU
> 
> also i apologize for the very shallow descriptions of Mass bc i know NOTHING about church lmao. if i got anything wrong, just let me know!!

When Roman finally does talk to Dean, it isn’t voluntary.

He crashes with Finn and Seth for a few days even though it hurts to see the way they look at each other. It’s better than the alternative, better than a house, a town, a  _ life _ stained with memories of Dean. The afterimage against his eyelids has changed, though, because every time he closes his eyes, he sees Dean’s smile, sees his dimples and round cheeks and the twinkle in his eyes and the slant of his teeth and. And it’s a lot to deal with.

So he doesn’t deal with it.

When he gets back to Winter Park, because he has to, because he has responsibilities, because he misses his dog, he doesn’t stay at his own house. Instead, he goes home and packs up some essentials and crashes at Jey’s. He doesn’t offer an explanation, just says he needs a change of scenery.

Working at the bakery is hard work, but it’s rewarding and he likes it and, most importantly, it’s distracting. He can just bury himself in dough and fruit and pastries, can turn off his mind and get some fucking  _ rest _ while he works. Cooking has always been therapeutic for him, even when he was a kid, and he’s never found that truer than now.

He skips a week of church.

He hasn’t ever done that before; even when he got really sick, he still went. In college, he always made time. He hasn’t missed Mass since he was a child. It’s odd, having the extra time. He’s so used to Sunday mornings being time dedicated to something that when it rolls around and he’s sitting at home, he feels. He feels empty, almost. Still, he doesn’t know if he could force himself to go. It feels too much like sin.

He’s already sinned enough.

He goes the week after, though, because he needs to get his life back on track. He’s a grown man, dammit, and the fact that he’s drowning in repression shouldn’t affect him this much. Some semblance of normalcy, of a schedule, of  _ familiarity, _ should knock some sense into him.

He also goes because Asuka comes into the bakery asking for him.

He’s always liked her, even though she’s kinda terrifying and doesn’t really fit anywhere. She’s lived in town for years, but she still doesn’t speak a whole lot of English. What she does is stilted, accented, formed with a mouth too unused to the syllables and a brain that has to pause and think about simple words. He’s gotten pretty good at understanding her, though, and she’s been a mainstay of the church for who knows how long.

She stops by Sunday morning, wrapped in a fur coat decorated with scraps of patterned fabric. Her pink and green hair is plastered to her forehead with rainwater, and there’s a heavy bag thumping against her side. She sucks all the air out of the room, but in a good way. He’s been at the bakery since 3 am because he can’t sleep and there’s nothing else he can think to do.

“I didn’t see you last week.” She says carefully, setting her bag on the counter. There’s water practically dripping off of her, pooling around her feet. He knows he’s going to have to mop later. The look she gives him, hard and assessing, is made no less threatening by the fact that she looks like a drowned cat.

He smiles diffidently and hands her a shortbread cookie. She looks at it for a moment before accepting it. She studies it for another moment before taking a bite. The resulting smile is no less threatening.

“I took some time to recharge. I’ve been a little out of it lately. Who’s serving Mass today?” He asks, sliding off his apron. He grabs the umbrella he keeps stashed by the door and opens it outside the door. He holds it over Asuka, choosing instead to tuck his hood up and hope for the best.

The church is two streets away from Roman’s bakery, and it’s a nice enough day despite the rain. The walk starts in companionable silence for a moment as Asuka finishes the cookie. She reaches into the bag and pulls out a stack of papers. “Undertaker. He said to give you these.”

Undertaker is a bit of a character. He’s been around since Roman was a kid, but no one can remember exactly  _ when _ he showed up. No one knows his real name. He’s one of the head priests, however mismatched the career seems, and he’s good at his jobs. His sermons have a way of always sticking in people’s minds.

The papers are a list of recipes and requests for the church gathering taking place in a few weeks. They host a big get together at the end of January every year, and he’s always asked to bake a ton of treats. It keeps him busy for most of the month, but it’s a welcome challenge, and one he enjoys. He carefully tucks it into his pocket.

The walk to the church is filled with pleasant small talk. The rain lets up a little, turns into a drizzle instead of a downpour. The church is warm, packed wall to wall with pews. Asuka smiles at him and bows in thanks before walking to the front pew. She sits next to Bayley and Carmella, finishing off an odd trio.

Roman sits in the back, tucked against the far wall. He takes the Bible out of the cubby on the back of the pew in front of him, running his fingers against the worn leather. They’re the same Bibles as when he was a kid, spines cracked and pages yellowed. The paper is thin and soft under his fingertips.

He lets himself get wrapped up in Undertaker’s sermon, lets the man’s voice roll over him, full of smoke and promises, lets himself get lost in the incense pouring from the thurible. He knows all the verses by heart, but he still flips to the pages to trace the words. It’s calming, comforting. He didn’t realize how much he needed this.

Halfway through Mass, someone sits next to him.

It’s Dean. He looks uncomfortable, but Roman can’t pinpoint if it’s because of him or because of the church. Dean never went when they were in high school, never picked up a Bible, never prayed a day in his life. He’s stiff, back ramrod straight, shoulders rigid with tension. He just…. sits there, for a moment, staring a hole through Undertaker’s chest.

“I wanted to apologize.” His voice is rough, sounds like he’s been smoking nonstop and crying for ages. He clears his throat, the sound thunderous even compared to Undertaker’s intoning. Dean won’t make eye contact. “I know you probably regret what happened. I’m sorry if I forced you into anything. I can find a new place to stay if you need space.”

The words feel fake, rehearsed, careful. The Dean that Roman grew up with never planned so much as a kegger in his life, so the thought that obviously went into his words is almost shocking. What’s even more shocking is the bubble of emotions in Roman's chest.

He can’t name all of them, but some he recognizes. Pain, worry, concern, disappointment. There’s something warm there, buried under all the negativity, something soft and light and  _ confusing _ . Roman’s head is swimming.

“I don’t regret it.” He whispers. He knows the words are true, has known that since the  _ talk _ he had with Finn. Still, knowing something is very different from verbalizing it. It feels especially wrong to admit it  _ here _ , of all places, in the middle of a sermon. Roman doesn’t know if he could say what Undertaker is talking about if his life depended on it.

The look that Dean sends him, shocked and vulnerable, feels like a knife between the ribs. His mouth parts unconsciously, and Roman’s can’t look away as he works around soundless syllables. Roman’s pulse is deafening in his ears.

“Then why did you leave me?” Dean’s  _ quiet _ in a bad way, in a way that’s telling and open and bleeding. There are so many emotions playing across his face, weighing down his words, that it’s suffocating. 

“I had to think. I don’t regret what happened, but it goes against everything I’ve believed in since I was a kid. This was never for me. This isn’t supposed to be an option. This is everything I shouldn’t want.” He wets his lips, his mouth feeling like a cotton field, and he looks into Dean’s eyes.

“But I want it anyway.”

All the breath rushes out of Dean’s lungs like he’s been punched in the gut. He sags a little, his shoulder slumping against Roman’s. His hands are shaking as he picks at the frayed strings hanging from his knees. His chin quivers, his lips pursed like he’s trying to hold back everything inside of him.

“If you’re not going to cash the checks you keep writing, I’m not doing this.” His voice is raw, jagged, rips at his throat, trips over his tongue on the way out. His eyes are bloodshot, against white against blue, welling with tears. “If you’re gonna say shit like this, you’re gonna have to go through with it. I can’t handle being…  _ led on _ like I’m some naive idiot.”

Roman sighs. “I’m… I’m trying, Dean. It’s just  _ hard _ , to go against 30 years of conditioning. I’ll do my best. That’s all I can offer right now.” He doesn't look over, doesn’t know if he can handle Dean seeing every painful, exposed emotion that’s crowding his face. 

Dean’s quiet for a long, onerous moment. His hands flex against his thighs, nails digging into his skin for a second before his fingers spring straight. His knee bounces restlessly, the noise of his combat boots thumping against the floor creating a steady underbeat to Undertaker’s intoning.

“I think that’s enough.” He finally says. He gulps, a little catch-swallow that Roman finds himself watching. Dean's Adam’s apple stretches the skin of his neck, and Roman’s teeth ache. “You’re trying. That’s good enough for me. But we need to have a talk about this.” He gestures between the two of them with a twitchy hand.

“After Mass. We can go home and just… talk this through.” Roman offers. It’s a sad excuse for an olive branch and he knows it, but the small upturn of the corner of Dean’s mouth makes it feel adequate enough.

When Dean reaches his hand out and links his pinkie with Roman’s, he doesn’t pull away.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written in like. 10 minutes. and im SCATTERED so have this mess lmao

The walk to the bakery is… nice.

Dean’s presence beside Roman is comforting, warm, solid. Their shoulders keep brushing, and Dean’s fingers sometimes wander across the back of Roman’s hand. Roman wants, deeply, with everything he has, to reach out and hold Dean, to sling an arm over his shoulder, to wrap an arm around his waist. He has to stop himself from holding Dean’s hand.

Dean settles into the passenger seat of Roman’s van like he belongs there. He pushes his knees against the edge of the dashboard, almost folded in half in his seat. He smiles at Roman, something soft and bright and  _ good _ . 

“Seatbelt.” Roman says as he gets in his own seat. Dean rolls his eyes and clicks his seatbelt, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. He looks at Roman’s hand where it's resting against the gearshift. 

“You’re still a mother hen, huh?” Dean teases, his tongue poking between his cheeks. Roman chuckles and shakes his head. He knows he has a penchant for worrying and that the title isn’t very far off. He’s been like this for years.

Dean’s hand resting on his startles Roman. His hand is warm, his skin worn and callused. His fingers lace between Roman’s. His hand is a little smaller than Roman’s, his palm square, his fingers long and crooked. There are bruises and scars spread across his knuckles, a few tattoos inking the skin. The word  _ LIVE _ is spread across his knuckles.

“Can I see your other hand?” Roman asks quietly. Dean quirks an eyebrow but offers it anyway. Roman’s free hand grabs it, his thumb tracing across Dean’s knuckles. These fingers bear the word  _ SOFT _ . There’s a bee tattooed on his thumb.

“I like your tattoos.” Roman says, releasing Dean’s hand. He settles his left hand on the steering wheel, gripping the leather. He focuses on the road instead of on Dean; it’s only a few miles to his house, and he knows the route by heart, but it’s something safe to focus on. The casual intimacy, the gentle touch, is making Roman’s heart hammer in his chest. He feels like he’s 16 again.

“I’ve always liked yours.” Dean admits softly. He moves the hand that’s holding Roman’s to trace the ink wrapped around Roman’s wrist. “The shoulder piece you had back in high school always seemed so cool. It’s just gotten more badass.” His fingertips barely make contact, his touch like silk. He traces the lines and patterns all the way up Roman’s forearm and back down to his hand again.

Dean grabs Roman’s hand as soon as they get out of the car. He presses himself to Roman’s side as the older man unlocks the house with shaky fingers.

“Can I hug you?” Roman asks softly as they step into the living room. He looks at the scuffed hardwood floor, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest and the heat in his cheeks. He feels  _ stupid _ asking for something like this because he knows he hasn’t earned it.

Dean cups Roman’s cheek, raising his gaze. His thumb flutters against the curve of Roman’s cheekbone. His touch is so  _ soft _ , like Roman’s something delicate, something that needs to be protected. Something jagged sits between his lungs.

“Of course.” Dean says softly, He loops an arm around Roman’s shoulders, pulling the older man into his embrace. He moves slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

Roman presses his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. His arms wrap around the younger man’s waist, holding him tight. He breathes deeply, the scent of leather and motor oil invading his nostrils. Dean holds on just as tightly, his chin pressing into Roman’s shoulder.

“You have no idea how much I needed this.” Dean mumbles. His breath hits Roman’s ear, his voice feeding directly into it. Roman shivers.

“I think I needed this too.”

They stay like that for a long moment, simply holding each other. The simple contact quiets a lot of the conflict in Roman’s mind. All the emotions and warring desires go silent for a blissful moment.

“We need to talk, and I don’t think we can do that productively if we’re hugging like this.” Dean laughs, squeezing Roman tightly. A hand smooths across his back, nails dragging across the fabric of his t-shirt.

Roman lets go, reluctant and embarrassed, and sits on the couch. Dean follows him, curling up with his knees to his chest. He leans against Roman minutely, close enough for Roman to feel his body heat.

“I don’t know how to start.” Roman admits. There’s so much fluttering around his head, too many feelings and wants and hesitancies flooding his synapses. It doesn’t help that he can’t focus on anything other than  _ Dean _ .

“I can start.” Dean offers. He waits until Roman nods until continuing. “I’ve liked you since senior year. When I kissed you back then, I meant it. It… it hurt, when you pushed me away. I’m sure you know that you were my only friend, and it felt too much like rejection after putting everything on the table.”

“Dean, I wanted you to kiss me.” Roman blurts out. Heat floods his face, shame and guilt and something darker, hotter, crowding his throat. “I pushed you away because I was taught I shouldn’t want that.” He takes a deep, shuddery breath. “But fuck, I wanted it.”

Dean smiles. It’s a sad smile, tinged with nostalgia and regret and missed opportunities. “I know this is hard for you. I never did the whole church thing, so I’m not gonna act like I know what you’re going through, but… I understand the conditioning.” Dean pauses for a moment, picking at the peeling skin on his thumb.

“I didn’t have a great home life.” He says. “I know that’s not exactly a secret, but I also know I never really said any of the specifics.” He doesn’t look at Roman. “My mom was an addict. My dad… I never met him. I think he was in prison. Mom tried her best, but she was never cut out for being a parent, and deep down, I know she never wanted me.” His voice wavers, cracking under the weight of his words.

“She never cared about my gender shit; for her, a son was easier to deal with. As long as I didn’t make it an issue, she didn’t give a shit. But when she caught me kissing a boy when I was 14… that made it an issue.” Dean leans against Roman further, tucking himself against Roman’s side.

“I don’t remember who it was, but I remember how she reacted. I still have a scar on my back from the belt buckle.” He gulps. “I learned to hide it after that. I grew to resent my sexuality because of her. I still fucked around but every single time, I felt so fucking sick I couldn’t handle it. It took me twenty god damn years to learn that what I feel is ok.”

He sits up and turns to face Roman. A hand comes to rest on Roman’s shoulder, thumb pressing against the side of Roman’s neck. “I know it’s not the same, but in some way. I get it. And I just. I need you to know that it’s ok. You’re not wrong or dirty or a sinner just because you love differently.”

Roman can’t look at Dean. There are tears in his eyes, ones he won’t let himself shed. He knows about the scars; he remembers sitting with Dean at 3 am tracing them and telling him that they didn’t define him. He had so many,  _ too many _ , for a fucking kid.

“I don’t know why this bothers me so much.” Roman whispers. His hands reach out of their own accord, coming to tangle in the hem of Dean’s old t-shirt. “The church I go to is surprisingly tolerant. There isn’t too much shit in this town. I never heard priests telling me I was going to Hell because of my feelings.” He swallows hard, feels like he’s in the desert and Dean is his oasis.

“I want this, Dean. I want what Seth and Finn have, what Jimmy and Noami have, what mom and dad have. I want someone I can hold and cherish and I want someone to comfort me and someone I can comfort. I’ve wanted this for  _ years _ but I never let myself have it.” He doesn’t pull away when Dean grabs his hand. The contact is reassuring, grounding, solid.

“I think I taught myself that I would never get that. Love was never something conceivable, for me. It was an out of reach goal, something unobtainable. I thought about my future and all I focused on was my career.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, like this is casual, like he isn’t baring his soul to the one person he can’t have reject it.

“Roman? Can you look at me?” Dean asks softly. Roman nods and forces himself to raise his eyes.

Dean’s eyes are still sunken and bloodshot, red against blue against white, shining with tears and emotions. That sad smile is still on his face, something hard to look at. His face is open, vulnerable, full of every emotion like he never learned he should hide him. He’s an open book full of things Roman can’t handle.

His hand comes up to cup Roman’s cheek. It’s a soft gesture, intimate, something that makes Roman’s breath catch in his throat. His fingertips are rough, callused, burned and scarred. They catch against Roman’s stubble as he gently strokes the side of his face.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean whispers it like he has to, like the moment will shatter if he raises his voice. There’s a red flush settled on his cheeks, rouge against porcelain. There’s  _ hope _ in his voice, open and unguarded and bleeding.

Roman nods.

Dean’s lips are soft, chapped. It’s a chaste kiss, nothing more than lips against lips, mouths closed. Dean’s hands are grounding, one against the back of his skull, the other against his waist. Roman finds his hands tangled in Dean’s shirt, like he’s clinging to him, like Dean is a lifeline.

Dean pulls away after a moment. He’s breathing heavy like he’s just run a marathon, cheeks scarlet under his beard. He rests their foreheads together, sharing breath and warmth.

“Will you give me a chance? Will you take a shot at happiness?” Dean mumbles. His voice is abraded and rough. The hope in his eyes, in his voice, is darkened by resignation, like he’s prepared for the worst.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm clown-dean on Tumblr! Come bug me!  
> Title credit to "Going Away to College" by Blink-182


End file.
